In Search of Companionship
by Inevitably Insane
Summary: After the events of the Sign of Three, Sherlock falls into a bout of melancholy; Mycroft, the consummate manipulator, suggests "filling the gap" and events largely get out of hand from there. A Sherlock adopts Harry!fic, set between Episodes Two and Three of Season Three.
1. Prologue: Laying Down the Breadcrumbs

A/N: Spoilers for up to Season 3, Episode 2: The Sign of Three. For the moment, we're disregarding the events of Episode 3, though that may be subject to change.

Prologue: Laying Down the Breadcrumbs

* * *

"I warned you not to get involved, Sherlock," Mycroft sighed, twirling his umbrella.

"Yes, well, it's five bloody years too late for that now, isn't it," Sherlock replied snippily. He sank back into his leather chair and stared disinterestedly at the skull on the mantle, pointedly avoiding Mycroft's scrutiny.

_Here's yet another sign,_ Mycroft noted, eyes passing over Sherlock's face before flitting around the room, noting the absence of the rather tasteless red upholstered armchair John favored. _Only two years ago and Sherlock would be having this 'conversation' lying prostrate on the couch in nothing but his robe. Further indicators of maturity, though the pouting certainly hasn't changed._

Mycroft fought the urge to sigh then, and rubbed his temples instead – only when dealing with his insufferable little brother did he feel inclined to something so plebian. "Come now, you haven't left the flat in three days, your experiments haven't been touched in longer, and judging from the rather relieved and pleading look Mrs. Hudson bore when showing me in," here he pursed his lips distastefully as he eyed his brother, "you've not eaten in three – no, four – meals."

"Most people would call that an invasion of privacy," Sherlock sulked, repositioning in the chair, as if by edging away from his brother he could avoid this confrontation.

Mycroft did roll his eyes at that. It seemed this was to be yet another rendition of several conversations they'd had before. "We've established we aren't most people, and you don't believe in privacy any more now than you did as a child. Stop deflecting."

Sherlock turned sharply in response to that accusation, gaze narrowing in on Mycroft's face. "Very well. What's my problem, then?" His muscles flexed as he tried to get back under control, tense against the soft fabric of his shirt. "_Deduce _it for me," he enunciated with a tilt of his chin, annoyed.

_Some fire at last, _Mycroft relished. He shifted, standing up straighter and clasping his umbrella in front of him, prepared to make his case. "There's an obvious void in your life, previously occupied by one John Watson–"

"Yes, brother dear, I _had_ figured that out for myself, based rather largely on the vacant room upstairs," Sherlock snarked back.

"–hence the use of the word '_obvious,_'" Mycroft sneered, little more than a slight upwards snarl of his mouth that managed to convey his rapidly lowering tolerance for Sherlock's childish disseminations.

Sherlock threw his hands up at that, exasperated and motioning for Mycroft to _bloody well get on with it_.

Mycroft took a deep breath, drawing himself upwards before exhaling softly. "Voids are best fixed by filling them, you know."

His younger brother tossed him a look that contained a small measure of hurt quickly eclipsed with a scoff, responding with, "You suggest finding a replacement John? What a ridiculous notion." Sherlock glanced away with a sniff, "Besides, I already considered it. It would take entirely too long to find someone who hadn't been tainted by the dull mediocrity of the world already. Even John had to be refurbished with my methods, and that took two years. Finding him was happenstance, a 'diamond in the rough,' if you will."

_And there's the errant flair for dramatics. _Mycroft leaned his weight to the right, placing his hand in his left vest pocket as he adopted a musing look. "I suppose it would be rather irritating to undo a lifetime's worth of vacuous impressions and tedious concerns…but perhaps, it could be _groomed_ into a proper candidate? Someone…not so set in their ways, so to speak?"

His younger brother's eyes lost focus, minute twitches of his facial muscles the only evidence of the myriad of thoughts being considered and rejected in the same breath. Mycroft watched from the corner of his eye as he examined the tip of his umbrella; carefully uncaring was the best way to get through to Sherlock if Mycroft had had the luxury of preparation beforehand. Most days, however, Sherlock neglected to give him much warning prior to causing mayhem, and Mycroft ran close to losing that tenuous hold on his composure. He'd learned this lesson years ago, though – radio silence from Sherlock was not an indication that all was well; he'd allowed his little brother to slip from his attention for a matter of months and it had led to some rather…distasteful habits, not to mention Mummy's tears.

_Focus, and lay the challenge…_

"–but then again, I had years with you, and look how you turned out," he drawled in a mild, mocking tone, "still just barely above a goldfish."

Sherlock affected some semblance of a smile, "Teaching and patience have never been your strong suit, brother dear. Now get out, you've seen I'm not dead, and I've had quite enough of you. Don't terrorize Mrs. Hudson on your way."

The corner of his mouth lifted, and Mycroft nodded his head. "As you wish; I'll see myself out, then," Beginning to twirl the umbrella, he turned and sauntered down the stairs. _Not bad for an afternoon._

"Mrs. Hudson! Tea!" The bellow sailed down from behind him as he passed a blandly pleasant smile to the aforementioned beaming housekeeper, and rang to his ears like victory.

_That's the seed planted, then. Let's see what you make of it, brother dear._

* * *

A/N: Dipping my toes into the Sherlock!BBC universe. Please let me know if you feel anyone is dramatically out of character, or if the sentences are too stilted - I'd really love some criticism.

Hope to have the next chapter out in a few days (and finally get to some plot).


	2. Chapter 2: Taking Steps

**A/N: Disclaimer.**

A little note: this chapter is pretty heavy with Sherlock-thoughts; see the A/N below for my reasoning behind it.

**Chapter 2: Taking Steps**

* * *

He hadn't wanted to admit it, and certainly not to his overbearing older brother, but something was different with Sherlock's recent bout of melancholy. It wasn't just boredom – he'd certainly encountered that often enough to know what it was – the few cases that had come through seemed just as unappealing as his experiments at the moment, and the siren call of his cigarettes was getting progressively harder to resist. Most telling, though, was the fact that he'd found himself turning more and more to the red armchair with some asinine thought on the tip of his tongue, only to find it empty.

That wasn't all that different from their old routine; he had often had entire conversations with John only to discover later that the doctor had been absent for several hours. But now there was no promise that John would be home soon, that he'd just stepped out to pick up some milk or go to that silly job of his.

So there the armchair sat, day after day, looking rather stiff and worn without a body to welcome.

Of course Sherlock had contemplated texting John, but he usually talked himself out of it before bothering to track down his mobile. There was an element missing: _pure human companionship, _John's voice would call it, the one he heard in his head from time to time_. Sentiment, _Mycroft's would sneer.

He'd finally resorted to removing the chair, hoping that the lack of visual stimuli would reinforce to his subconscious that John no longer lived here, with no results; it was an ingrained habit by now, and the idea of actively training himself out of it seemed entirely too troublesome.

The thoughts he wanted to share weren't even interesting ones deserving of vocalization, to be honest, just the usual musings he occupied his brain with when cases were few and far between: reworked theories of old unsolved murders, various derisions on the follies and foibles of humanity, corrections for whenever the telly got something so wrong he couldn't stand it…nothing important, really, just things he didn't want to keep to himself anymore.

Though the two year separation inflicted by Moriarty's mess was a much longer gap than the month or so since the wedding, it had been engaging, exciting, and, most importantly, driven by the ultimate purpose of keeping his important people safe. Lately, there had been nothing interesting to focus on beyond trying to pinpoint whoever was responsible for John's near incineration on Guy Fawkes Night, but he had circled that endlessly in the first two weeks post-wedding, finally determining he could do no more until new details had come forth.

Sherlock was well and truly in a bit of a slump, which was the only reason that he was considering his brother's latest challenge. The words of Mycroft's little check-in had stuck in his mind, try as he might to engage it with something else. He certainly hadn't missed the careful dance Mycroft had played with his words at the end, referencing their questionable childhood. _He's so annoying when he's trying to force me in some direction; won't ever say what he wants because he knows I'd reject it on principle, but instead spends all this time mincing his words and "treading lightly" so he can give me a "puzzle to play with"…honestly, I'm not a child anymore. _Sherlock sneered at that, the absurdities his brother took were borderline outrageous sometimes.

Nevertheless, his thoughts turned over that conversation: _Not a new John then, but perhaps someone I could occupy myself with for a time…that might not be so awful_.

He rejected all of his current acquaintances on principle; he needed someone new to play with, untainted by past perceptions and preferably fairly malleable. _Someone amenable to observation training, and_ _an element of daredevilry, too, wouldn't be remiss. Hmmm._

Shockingly Archie, the little boy from John and Mary's wedding, leapt to mind first – he had been open and eager about gruesome crime scene photos, unimpressed with the silly rules of society that Sherlock himself struggled with so often, the ones other people clutched so dearly…in that same vein, children in general were much easier to influence, and they had a habit of paying attention to the details that years of dull routine and societal conventions had beaten into background noise for adults.

_Psychologically speaking, the ideal age range for learning new skill sets and languages generally falls between four and nine, and a great deal of childhood impressions lay the foundations for the concepts and norms adults depend on_…

_Though_ _an adolescent would be more self-sufficient_, he mused, _and more capable of the covert acts sometimes necessary in my line of work. _But teenagers were unruly and prone to random fits of surliness; they couldn't be relied upon to any great degree, diminishing the inherent benefits of age and longer reach of arm.

_And young children had far less hormones to deal with_; troublesome things, those – he'd trained himself to recognize whenever the chemicals were interfering with his thought processes at fourteen, but it'd been a fairly annoying year until he'd pinpointed exactly where all the aggression was coming from. Still, the experience had preoccupied him for a time with learning the ins and outs of biochemistry, a pursuit Mycroft had loudly approved of. _Up until I started slipping experimental drugs into his morning tea whenever he came home to visit, _Sherlock snickered, vindictively pleased with himself.

_Not too young though, _he thought, returning to his previous contemplations. He couldn't be bothered to teach one how to speak or use the loo or any of that rubbish. _John had better not get ideas about needing a babysitter for his once it's born_, he reflected absently.

_Besides, people had a saying about that, didn't they? Something to do with the 'terrible twos?' Well, that just cements it then, I'll have to get one that's gone through that already._

_Boy or girl? _He speculated next; balance of probability said he was much more likely to have success with a boy than finding a younger Molly Hooper – _bugs versus barbies, after all, although I won't rule out the possibility._

The more he considered the idea, the more he'd grown to like it, although Archie had come attached with that considerably overbearing and unobservant mother of his: _frankly, it should have been obvious Archie wasn't "in a shell," _Sherlock derided,_ he was simply utilizing the silent treatment in protest to his forced wedding participation, rather ineffectively if she hadn't even noticed the root of the problem…_Regardless, had Sherlock actually tried to take Archie to any real crime scenes, the mother undoubtedly would have kicked up a fuss.

_So a four- to nine- year-old boy with potential, and preferably without parents. Right, let's get cracking then._

* * *

Upon reaching a decision, Sherlock had hit the streets with a bit of a disguise – wouldn't do for him to be recognized, after all – in search of a child. At first he had thought a youth from his homeless network would be ideal, already trained in picking pockets and locks. But they were all too old, really, and didn't appear interested in leaving their little street gangs.

So he had moved on to scoping out different group homes about London. He'd come very close to finding a suitable one in a few of them, but in the end, something hadn't quite seemed right. _John would accuse me of being picky, _he reflected.

_He'd be right, you know_, the part of his mind that had been most affected by John's presence chimed in. _Then again, this is probably the sort of thing he'd disapprove of on principle._

_And therein lies a bit of the thrill, _John's voice whispered quietly in the back of his head.

_Not picky, just particular_, Sherlock rationalized briskly, not wanting to follow that train of thought. _I want a good one, after all._

Though the disguises had initially been part of his plan to avoid a media circus, Sherlock had also begun using them as a method to weed out potential children quickly. He purposefully chose overly dramatic or out of place ensembles that could be seen through if anyone looked more carefully, _though I haven't gotten anything more than cursory glances from the adults running these places; rather disturbing really, considering they're supposed to be 'in charge' of Britain's youth._

Nevertheless, such actions had led to his current situation, wearing an itchy faux moustache that was a few shades too dark to match the blond wig he'd absconded with – damn cheap theater costumes – and a tan trench coat three sizes too big that was proving quite necessary in the face of a cool summer day. He leant against the red brick wall of the St. James' group home observing the residents, halfway between the double doors of the facility and the industrial-sized bins around the corner, where a few older children lurked with a pack of cards.

The playground was swarming, resembling an upturned anthill; _controlled chaos at its finest, _he relished. Two monitors remained on the fringe of the mess, seated on a blue bench near the doors, absently chatting as they watched their charges. An expanse of pavement twelve or so meters in front of them provided a few hoops for shooting baskets, along with foursquare and tetherball courts. The playscape itself nestled in a sand pit beyond that, sharing space with the highly popular swing set. The entire area was surrounded by a chain-link fence, at the foot of which rested large, rectangular logs – _railroad ties, I believe_.

Children crawled over the red iron play structure, several seated on top of the monkey bars themselves or pushing each other down one of the two slides, while smaller crews constructed sand castles at the base. A large group of boys played basketball with one half of the court, occasionally spilling into the foursquare area and sparking a bit of a conflict. Right on cue, one of the monitors stood up and stomped over, threatening the whole lot with a loss of privileges.

Interspersed in the entire mess were six adults, two couples and two individuals, both women, _both married into the upper class, judging from their clothing and jewelry_. The two couples were more common, though on the higher end of the spectrum; _one husband's a doctor, and the other wife looks like she works for the government._

_And all here doing the same thing I am, _Sherlock thought, _picking out a child._

_42 children in all_, he estimated. _No, wait, 43, one's stashed himself against the fence there. _Sherlock's eyes traced the form of the small boy perched rather stiffly on the edge of one of the logs outlining the playground area, a few feet from where sand met pavement.

He seemed to keep an eye on Sherlock at all times, though his head was on a constant swivel in motion. _Looking for a friend, perhaps? _But the gaze wasn't searching for faces in the crowd, it was darting between very specific areas – the basketball-cum-tetherball courts, the monkey bars, and the corner with the bins that was partially out of sight of the monitor. _Keeping the bigger children in his sights, _Sherlock realized.

_Bullying target? _The consulting detective wondered next; _No, the boy's not hiding, he's been in plain sight since before I arrived, although he's very good at avoiding drawing attention to himself – if he was a regular target, he would've been ambushed by now, or still be cowering within the protection of the monitors. Just alert then, _Sherlock decided, _an ingrained habit._

This was a point in the boy's favor. The way he'd kept eyes trained on multiple targets at once, without an obvious reason, spoke of a history of bullying; potentially even abuse by adults if the way he was eyeing Sherlock and the other potential parents was any indication.

But he wasn't scrutinizing the second, still-seated monitor with the same degree of intensity; _because she's female? Or because he trusts her not to be a danger? Is that him trusting in the position she holds as a monitor responsible for keeping the children safe, or trusting her as an individual? _The thoughts swirled rapidly around Sherlock's brain, unable to be dismissed as possibilities without more information.

Sherlock abruptly pushed off the brick wall and made his way to the fence, ambling slightly to match the mid-40s age of his current disguise. The boy's head immediately snapped in his direction, gaze wary and assessing. Sherlock paused a few meters away, and considered the huddled figure more closely. The flyaway curls were a close match in color and texture to Sherlock's own, though the boy didn't have the tight corkscrews Sherlock had at that age (something he had eventually grown out of, thankfully). But where Sherlock's eyes resembled grey morning mists on the Thames, this child had piercing chips of emerald. _Unusual color, _Sherlock noted. _They could probably be darkened to a nondescript brown with the right contacts, though never a blue – the green is simply too vibrant for that._

"Mind if I join you?" Sherlock asked, careful to avoid invading the boy's space without permission.

Guarded eyes studied him from small, pointed features, deliberating. The boy shrugged finally without removing his hands from where they were jammed in his pants' pockets, a jerky motion of narrow shoulders. Sherlock sat with a moderate distance between them, hoping to convey his harmlessness, yet the boy remained tense, poised to stand quickly if necessary.

They remained quiet for a few minutes, observing the antics of the children surrounding them. Still the boy's head turned from one side of the playground to the other, occasionally peeking at Sherlock from the corner of his eye, until finally Sherlock cleared his throat and asked conversationally, "Don't feel like playing today?"

"Not really, sir," the boy replied, "I'm fine watching."

"Do you watch things often, then?" Sherlock asked, leaning back against the fence. The chain-links groaned, bowing with the shape of his back.

He expected a silent nod, or maybe to be ignored entirely, but to his surprise the boy shrugged and responded with, "If you don't watch, you get caught off guard. Better to know," in a matter-of-fact tone.

Sherlock's eyebrow rose, "A wise philosophy. It's rare to find that in someone so young." He had originally estimated the boy to be around five or six from his small stature and initial manner, but now Sherlock revised that opinion. _Seven or eight?_

"S'pose," the boy was speaking again, toeing the dirt in front of them. "It was important, that's all."

"And what can you tell me about me?" Sherlock asked, curious as to what his reply would be; the consulting detective doubted anything of substance, but it was a good chance to assess the child. He had to start somewhere, after all.

The boy half twisted to get a good look at him, brows furrowed together in a bit of a scowl as he considered the man. "You don't…" he began, before pausing and donning a slightly perplexed expression, as if surprised he had spoken at all.

"Yes?" Sherlock prompted when it became clear he wouldn't continue. Sherlock attempted to look encouraging and accepting as he spoke, but he wasn't entirely certain he had succeeded when the boy remained silent for a few moments more. _I was hoping for a little more gumption_, Sherlock thought, a bit disappointed.

"You don't…match," the boy admitted, finally.

"Match?" both of Sherlock's eyebrows lifted at that. _Match what? _he wondered, brain running off with possibilities, _society, the type of parental figures that usually visit the home, the businessman persona I'm trying to portray –_

"Something off about your moustache, sir," the boy muttered, glancing away with a blush.

Sherlock's thoughts halted. "You know, you're quite right," he conceded, pleased with this observation. "I don't really approve of them, to be honest. They're quite ridiculous." And with that, he reached up and peeled the faux facial hair off of his upper lip, offering it to the boy to examine.

"Oh," the boy said faintly, staring at the bit of hair in his hand, "my uncle's didn't do that, I don't think."

"Most don't," Sherlock confided. "This was a bit of a special case."

The boy glanced back up at him, green eyes open as he waited for more explanation. The tension had dropped from his shoulders in the wake of his surprise at Sherlock's revelation, attention focused wholly on the consulting detective.

A small part of Sherlock savored that attention; people rarely looked at him like that, eager for him to impart some sort of hither-to unexplained or mystifying bit of knowledge. He'd grown used to the fact that most people found him annoying at a young age, and frankly it didn't bother him much, but he'd missed those looks of wonder. John occasionally stared at him that way, when he was in the mood to be amazed at Sherlock's deductions; it was a tiny element of what made John so appealing as a friend.

_Perhaps…_A plan formulated in his head then, and he waved his hands impatiently. "Never mind that," Sherlock said, a small smile forming on his face. "How would you like to play a game?"

* * *

**A/N: First off, thank you so much for all of the reviews, favs and follows. I hope to have responded to the reviews personally by tonight, but it's really exciting that people enjoyed the prologue.**

Secondly, this chapter is still doing a lot to set the scene - there's a lot of Sherlock thinking as opposed to dialogue, partially because we don't have John around at the moment to make Sherlock talk, but also because I feel it's important to establish a background for why Sherlock's acting the way he is, and what on earth possessed him to think about acquiring a Harry. The show does a great job of highlighting all of the little details that Sherlock notices to the audience, making his deductions very believable; this is something that doesn't always translate well into writing, because it's very easy to say Sherlock saw _something _and then was able to conclude XYZ because he's that amazing, without it ever making much sense to the reader. [On that note, if you see me doing this, please call me out on it].

Anyways, I'm of the mind that Sherlock has rapid-fire thoughts, is capable of great planning [i.e. his plots with Mycroft regarding Moriarty], and is certainly incredibly intelligent, but not infallible. As he told John at the beginning, "There's always something." I also think he's matured and mellowed out a bit in this third season, which is how I intend to write him.

Erm, and sorry it took longer than planned. I had to sit on it for a while.

A side note on the timeline of things: with respect to the Sherlock universe, John/Mary's wedding was on May 18th, Mycroft's visit a month later in June, and Sherlock's started moving shortly thereafter. I'm not even going to try to mesh the years accurately, so please assume we're somewhere in the realm of 2010 and adjust the events of Harry Potter accordingly. If this ever gets specific, I'll let you know, but I highly doubt it will.

**As always, thanks for reading! Please feel free to criticize!**

**- Kris**


	3. Chapter 3: A Bargain is Struck

**A/N: Disclaimer.**

So a few of you lovely reviewers quite rightly indicated what a creeper Sherlock's being right now; I would like to point out he_ does_ have permission to be visiting the group home as a prospective parent (which will hopefully be made a little more clear this chapter), but yeah, odd looking man in moustache watching kids = not okay generally speaking.

Erm, I'm afraid from an outsider's point of view the creeping is about to get quite a bit worse, though. Rest assured, he will be called out for it later!

**Chapter 3: A Bargain is Struck**

* * *

_Perhaps…A plan formulated in his head then, and he waved his hands impatiently. "Never mind that," Sherlock said, a small smile forming on his face. "How would you like to play a game?" _

"A game?" The boy repeated, clearly confused at the non sequitur. Something shuttled quickly across his face before the look of dubious distrust pushed to the front again, and he leaned a little further away from Sherlock's enthusiasm.

But Sherlock had a good feeling about this one, so rather than dropping the subject, he kept pushing (delicately). _Patience here, brother dear_, Mycroft's voice cautioned.

"Yes, a game. I like games, don't you?" He asked brightly.

"I…I've not enjoyed most of the ones I've played," the boy admitted slowly, uncertain how to navigate the subject change. _He's rather like a feral dog you've fed once, wants to trust you, but he's been struck so many times before the hesitance is ingrained by now, _Sherlock thought.

_Don't get ahead of yourself, Sherlock, he could still say no, _John warned.

"I promise you won't have played this one before," Sherlock said amiably. He softened then, taking pity on the bewildered boy. "You said you liked watching, right? Well, this is a game that's all about watching."

"I-spy?" The boy suggested, face transparent as he scrambled to think. _We'll have to work on that, _Sherlock noted, _being exposed that way is a surefire way to get caught in a lie. Although it's a good sign: the innocence wasn't beaten out of him. Too hard too young, and he wouldn't be of any use to me. _

"Mmm I'm afraid not, though that, too, is an excellent observation game," Sherlock agreed, although he much preferred the more elaborate version that he and Mycroft had developed when they were younger: "I deduce." _Something to look forward to, perhaps. _

Sherlock leaned a little closer to stare more clearly at the boy, considering. "You've probably played a lot of games by yourself, haven't you? Invented new ones? Made up your own adventures?"

The boy peered guilelessly up at him from behind thick lenses, eyes scrunched up as he attempted to focus more clearly on Sherlock's face; _funny how the eyes themselves stood out so much more at first than those glasses… they're really quite horrible, and probably the wrong prescription, judging from how badly he's squinting at me. _

"How did you know, sir?" the child whispered, in a soft, longing tone.

_Your decision to sit silently by yourself in a playground full of your peers, without any toys to speak of. Your ability to remain in one place for longer than five minutes without seeking a new distraction. The yearning look I caught on your face when I asked you to play, just before it disappeared behind the disbelief that I could possibly be asking _you_._

Any one of those answers would have done, and even have been truthful, for that matter, but Sherlock wasn't concerned with showing off at the moment. He was trying to hook the child's interest, and a bit of mystery always acted as a good lure. So instead all he offered was, "I played games all by myself, too; still do, in fact.

"But the ones I like best have always been against other people," he continued. "A true challenge, new angles to consider, unpredictability…" his words trailed off as his thoughts turned briefly to Moriarty. _John would yell at me for saying so, but that was the finest game I'd played in a while. Engaging, elegant, and so deliciously _not_ boring. _

The boy squirmed a bit, bringing Sherlock's focus back to the present.

"Suffice to say, it brings a new element to the table," he finished. "So, how about it, will you play with me?" Sherlock asked a second time.

The boy ran a hand through his hair, flattening it across his forehead. "We're not really supposed to play with strangers," he temporized, "but Miss Jane says it's okay to play with the adults in the home as long as they're wearing the blue badge, since they might wanna adopt us," he admitted, turning to look at Sherlock's own dangling name tag for confirmation.

It bore a very nondescript "Mr. Brown," the ink on the 'n' a bit smudged from being inserted into the plastic cardholder too quickly after printing. A brown bear sticker had been added by the woman at the front desk, "To help the children remember, dear," a sentiment Sherlock could understand – visual cues were quite useful to stimulate memory, as he well knew – though he could have done without something quite so… cheery.

Sherlock remained silent and let the child rationalize, pleased to hear some semblance of logic being employed and rather certain of the outcome; _who could resist a mystery, after all?_

But then the boy's mouth snapped shut as a new look dawned on his face; Sherlock could physically watch him withdraw: shoulders up, head pulled down, brows closed. The transparency was rather fascinating to the detective – people usually attempted (poorly, to his eyes) to hide their reactions better in social situations, but this was a pure response to a perceived threat.

So Sherlock wasn't all that surprised when the next words were not an agreement, but an abrupt, "What are the rules of your game? I'm not sure I'll be allowed to play after all."

_Smart, to hide behind the permission of an adult to potentially get out of something he doesn't want to do. Leaves him open to say yes if the outcome is good, but he can run off to a monitor if he doesn't like it. Though it's _slightly_ more effective if he doesn't give himself away beforehand. _

Sherlock chose his words carefully. "Like I said, it's all about observation; you noticed quickly that my moustache didn't quite fit in with my hair and eyebrow color, yes?

"Er, well, I suppose?"

"Then I propose this: I'll visit you each week dressed up as someone different for a month. If at the end of the month, you can tell me three true things about myself, I'll give you a prize." Sherlock explained patiently.

"But why? That sounds like an awful lot of work for you, sir," the boy frowned, perplexed.

"I get bored easily," Sherlock answered honestly. "Really, you'd be doing me a favor, playing with me. My brother doesn't have the time for it anymore." The consulting detective dangled a new tidbit in front of the boy, partially to see if he'd take the bait, but largely because the detective was close to exhausting his limited social skills.

Nevertheless the boy ignored the topic and instead seemed to be trying to work out Sherlock's angle. _He's somewhat dismissive because the entire thing appears far-fetched, but mostly it's because he can't imagine anyone wanting to spend that much time on him. _

"It's quite a nice prize," Sherlock offered enticingly, changing tactics.

The boy opened his mouth, paused, and then asked doubtfully, "I wouldn't have to do anything else, just figure out three things about you?"

"Well, finding out who I am each day will take a bit of work, I imagine. I'll not make it easy on you," Sherlock warned with a wry smile.

_Third time's the charm? _John's voice offered.

"I wouldn't ask just anyone, you know," he intoned, leaning closer. Confiding in people was supposed to be a good way to earn trust, right? "You're the first one to notice anything odd about me, and I've been wandering around like this for _days." _

The boy straightened a bit at that, a pleased look curving at the edge of his mouth.

_A hint of pride? I've got him now. _

"Alright, let's play." The child agreed with a sharp nod of his head.

"Excellent. The game is afoot!" Sherlock concluded with his usual phrase, earning a funny look from the boy.

"For the moment, though, I'll need that back," Sherlock said, gesturing to the moustache still clutched in the boy's hand. "People aren't very observant often, but returning my nametag sans facial hair _might_ be pushing it."

The boy laughed a little, brief confusion crossing his face at the word 'sans,' and returned the piece to the detective, watching fascinated as Sherlock began to reapply it with a bit of costume glue from his pocket. _Useful thing, trench coat pockets._

The detective climbed to his feet and gazed down at the boy with a brief nod, memorizing his facial features. "Until next time then."

The boy gave him a serious nod in return, and watched as Sherlock strode off in the direction of the building.

_That went quite well, I think._

* * *

Sherlock made his way back to the double doors at a pace slower than his usual stride, mind spinning with plans for their next meeting. He was just about to pass the benches when he was hailed unexpectedly.

"You got him to talk to you, then?" the still-seated monitor called out to him, surprised. He glanced about the playground, noticing her partner had resolved the squabble on the court and moved over to the swing sets, pushing some of the younger children.

Sherlock turned back to the woman in front of him; he'd noted her eyes on their spot of the fence periodically during the fifteen or so minutes they had been chatting and dismissed it accordingly as part of her duties, but this sudden interest led the detective to do a quick assessment: _Miss 'Rachel', according to her name tag, late 20s, recently married, some sort of teacher judging from her bag, _he thought, noticing the lettering for a local private school on the side_; probably for small children, given her volunteer choice. She wants kids, the husband's resisting._ It was all there, in the wistful arch of her eyebrows, the grasping hand splayed on her stomach, and the way she was absently spinning her marriage ring.

"I'm glad," she continued with a somewhat warm, sanctimonious smile. "Harry's had a rough go of it; he's barely spoken since he was brought here,"

_Add overly emotionally invested with her charges, and a gossipmonger, to boot._ _And 'Harry?' _

He mentally reviewed their conversation, realizing neither party had offered a name at any point. _Mine was easily explainable, I had the nametag and adult status; on some level it makes sense for him to ignore it, out of respect or what have you…but for him to not mention his name at all suggests he's either used to everyone knowing it, or, more likely, he's used to people not wanting it…_

The woman looked ready to launch in to some juicy, tragic backstory, no doubt fraught with embellishments, so Sherlock quickly affected an absent, uncaring expression. When he was time pressured on a case, it could be useful to hear the opinions of bystanders on his client or victim, but he could afford to take his time here. He much preferred to deduce information firsthand from the subject themselves; people lied, after all, but their appearance and actions were usually more reliable. It was one of the reasons he'd been so annoyed with Mycroft during the case with The Woman – no face-to-face meeting with his client meant he was only getting part of the picture.

Sherlock briefly debated bringing up the topic of the monitor's shaky marriage as a cheap distraction, but no, _Not good_, came the voice inside his head. "We had quite a pleasant conversation," was all he shared, instead. John _had_ taught him to rein it in a bit better.

He followed quickly with a curt, "Sorry, buzzing," gesturing to his pocket and effectively cutting her off before she could really start digging. He pulled out his mobile and sauntered up the walkway to the building entrance.

"Oh hello! I'm fine, how are you-" was all that escaped before he was safely ensconced behind the double doors, quickly relaxing into his more neutral expression.

Two hallways stood before him, decorated with childish drawings and various summer-themed stencils. A bulletin board to the left proudly declared the rules of the playground in big block lettering_, _easily visible from a child's height. He'd been shown on a brief tour of the first floor before being turned outside when he first arrived, so he knew that down the left hallway were a few assorted classrooms, bathrooms and eventually, round the corner, the auditorium that doubled as a cafeteria. The right hallway led to the staff room, the art room, the back entrance to the stage of the auditorium, and the door he was heading for: the lobby.

The whole building was one giant square, really, so he could've gone in either direction, but he wanted to snag another glimpse into the staff room on his way.

A few quick strides had him in front of the staff door; it was more plainly decorated than the other entryways he'd passed. _Probably to discourage aimless visits from the students, _he reasoned.

_Damn, locked. _He briefly debated picking it, but weighed the likelihood of getting caught against the necessity of entry _right now _and decided to leave it; he would have other opportunities in the near future, and would most likely be better acquainted with what sort of information he should be looking for. _This isn't a case, you have the time to take it slow, _he reminded himself. That left only one more item on his agenda for the day.

So Sherlock continued down the hallway, towards the front of the building. He paused just before pushing through the door that would return him to the lobby, glancing through the thin pane of glass to confirm that the receptionist was still at her desk. He backed off a few steps to the side of the hallway and pulled out his mobile again to dial a number:

"Hello, this is Sarah at the St. James' Group Home, how may I help you?" came an older voice on the other end of the line.

"Yes, hi, I'm looking for Rachel. I have an important message for her and can't reach her on her mobile. Could you go get her for me? It's quite urgent." He said, pitching his own voice higher by a few octaves.

"Certainly, sir. One moment please."

He heard her pushing a few buttons on her end before cheerful music began spilling through the line. The detective quickly pushed the mute button and turned his face further into the wall. He brought the phone back to his ear, prominently displayed, and began speaking again.

"-oh yes, that would be lovely…" he affirmed deeply, just before the lobby door swung open. He pointed to his mobile with his other hand, mouthing, "My secretary."

The slightly stooped figure of the elderly front receptionist stared at him in surprise for a moment, clearly not expecting anyone to be on the other side; once she grasped he was in the middle of a conversation, she nodded to him silently and continued on down the hallway.

"-excellent, really…" Sherlock continued, twisting to ensure Sarah had gotten far enough away she couldn't overhear him anymore.

He shoved the still muted phone back into his pocket, figuring he had approximately two minutes for Sarah to find Rachel and bring her back to the front desk to take her call. He slipped through the lobby door and made for the computer – _still unlocked, no password protection, _really_ – _in search of the upcoming events schedule.

Sherlock clicked through a few applications before finding a copy: _quite full too, my luck it's the holidays, plenty going on to keep the children entertained._ He quickly emailed it to himself, deleted the email, and slid off the office chair.

As he was removing his nametag, he spied a half open drawer filled with the materials necessary to make new badges; _might as well grab a few of those while I'm here, could prove useful. _

The detective had just swung around to the proper side of the desk, contraband shoved into the deep trench coat pockets and "Mr. Brown" nametag in hand, when he heard the click of two pairs of heels signaling the return of the receptionist with the monitor from earlier.

"Oh! Ready to check out then, dear?" The elder receptionist asked, scuttling over to seat herself in the recently vacated chair. "I'll just take that badge, and if you could sign out on this sheet, you're all set," she said to Sherlock.

Sherlock took a moment to appreciate the linked network operating between the various group homes: once one fake background made it through the bureaucracy, security was reduced to a simple paper sign in sheet. _Not quite technologically integrated yet, are we? Safe bet that the files on the children _are_ still paper copies in the staff room then, _he thought to himself. _I really will have to have a look in there at some point. _

To the woman beside her, the receptionist turned and said, "Line two for you, dearie. Push the third button over to stop the phone music."

Sherlock caught the receptionist's eye and said, "I'll just be off then. Take care," with a sunny smile that felt rather out of place on his face, but seemed to past muster, because Sarah just smiled and hummed back at him.

He was just turning to leave, thumb on the 'call end' button of the phone in his pocket, when he heard the younger woman say, puzzled, "The line just went dead."

"Really? Must've got tired of waiting, then. People are so impatient these days!" Sarah exclaimed with a grumble. "Let me try and get the number off of the caller ID and you can ring back."

He was a step through the exit, listening to the fading voices behind him with a small smirk on his face. "Oh my, the call was on private; well, it couldn't have been that important if he didn't bother to leave a message…"

* * *

For the first encounter of their game, Sherlock decided to take it somewhat easy on the boy and waited exactly a week. _Plenty of time to teach the boy about unpredictability in later sessions, _he thought. That this conveniently allowed the detective to sneak in to view the exclusive concert put on by one of the home's benefactors was only an added benefit, of course.

The only other option for this week had been an "Arts and Crafts Day" with the children, which Sherlock blatantly refused to subject himself to. Small, hyperactive imps racing around with _glitter_ and _glue?_ Absolutely not. The one he picked out might not be so inclined (_of course he's not, that's why I picked him)_, but he would have to interact with the rest of them first or be spotted immediately. _And that wouldn't be a challenge for the boy at all._

No, a concert was perfect in his mind: small amounts of talking required beyond the usual pleasantries, and if this turned out to be a colossally bad idea, there would be plenty of rich people around to distract himself with; he could sit in a corner and play 'spot-the-scandal' if the boy was slow to find him.

So when Friday afternoon rolled around again, Sherlock donned a tuxedo and a pair of false spectacles, using some gel to slick his hair back. It was rather minimalist as far as disguises went, but it would prove a sharp contrast to the blond figure from last week. It was still cool in the evenings, so he nabbed one of his less distinctive coats on his way out the door. A pocket watch tucked into his front pocket added a dash of elegance; all in all he thought he'd pulled off the debonair look quite well.

Just before stepping out of the cab, he added the final touch – a self-printed badge from the stash he'd swiped last week, declaring his name for the evening: "Mr. Smyth."

Sherlock had had the cabbie stop a block away from the home to give himself time to consider his approach: as he had hoped, a man was taking tickets at the door from the various patrons lined up on the steps outside. While the events schedule he'd emailed himself last week was proving quite useful, it unfortunately lacked copies of the tickets necessary to actually attend the events; Sherlock would have to improvise his way in.

_All part of the fun, really._

Though the entrance to the home was a double door set up, the man taking tickets had kept one shut (_and most likely locked) _to better control the crowd. _Best bet in is through another entrance then. _

Sherlock casually slipped down the alleyway that would lead to the back of the home and the fenced off play area. The side street was remote enough at this hour that he was unlikely to be seen if he was careful enough. After a quick look in either direction, Sherlock placed his coat atop the fence to keep from snagging his tuxedo, wedged a foot in one of the holes and levered himself over the top. It was a neat maneuver, and he easily landed on his feet at the bottom.

"Right then," he said, collecting his coat. He slipped a hand inside the inner pocket to extract his lock picking kit and went to work on the back doors leading into the building.

It was a matter of minutes before he heard the quiet snick of the lock giving, and he paused for a moment to collect himself before continuing inside. The detective took the left hallway this time, stepping into the bathrooms to wet his hands and provide a cover story if anyone thought to ask where he'd been, _though I doubt anyone will bother. _

And just like that, smooth as butter, Sherlock made his way into the lobby where the other guests were congregating. Here and there a child darted through, but the detective saw no sign of his just yet. He caught the tail end of various conversations as he lingered by the refreshments table for a while. _Stock markets this, Parliament that, _he thought, disgusted. _How dull. _He left the cup of water he'd picked up on the edge near the cheese tray and wandered about the room, ostensibly in search of a program.

Sherlock drew nearer to the tablecloth-covered table set up by the entryway, burdened with several stacks of programs and a donations box on the corner. The monitor from the other day – _Rachel, _John's voice provided – was seated behind it, trying to coax funding out of an older couple as she regaled them with tales of Wednesday's Art Day. Several of the children's drawings were displayed on the walls, complete with a sloppy signature each; a sign nearby declared them for sale for a pound.

Sherlock slipped in behind a rather loud foursome loitering just to the side of the couple to grab a program off the corner. _Strike that, just the one is noisy_, he thought, observing the rather portly man addressing what looked to be his boss and the boss's wife. The portly man's own wife seemed used to his deafening tones and absurd chortling, for she stood placidly by with a pleasantly interested look plastered on her face, mind clearly elsewhere in the face of a story she'd probably heard numerous times already. The boss and his wife did not appear so desensitized to the verbal onslaught: the woman was subtly trying to back away, and looked quite willing to sacrifice her husband to do so. In fact –

"I'll just go get us some drinks then, shall I dear?" She murmured quietly, but insistently to her husband, before hastening off to the refreshment table nestled under the stairs, clear across the room. _They won't be seeing her for a while, _Sherlock smirked.

If anything, the wife's rapid departure seemed only to encourage the employee, as for all intents and purposes he now held his boss's entire attention. The boss had a rather pained look on his face at this renewed enthusiasm, and tried to interrupt with, "Ah yes, that's all well and good George, but what about this program tonight, eh? Should be a fine evening! We ought to get to our seats, yeah? I think it's starting soon!"

"Oh no sir, we still have a good twenty minutes!" George replied earnestly. "I always love a good night of music; used to play the violin when I was a boy myself! Still do when I have the time, isn't that right, Marcia?" he nudged his wife with an elbow, prompting her to bob her head in agreement. He immediately demonstrated, bringing his hands up in a mockery of the way one might hold a violin and elaborately waving his right arm over his left, swaying back and forth in the motion.

"Moron," Sherlock couldn't help but utter, eyebrow twitching. _His bowing is all over the place, his hands are spaced entirely too far apart for a violin; even with a large-sized viola he would be hard-pressed to draw anything called music out of the instrument. If this man ever took real lessons, which I _highly _doubt_,_ they were so long ago he's lost what little he might've learned. He's certainly not touched one recently – he doesn't even have the calluses to back up his claims! _

Fortunately, the man appeared so "in tune" with his music and swaying that he failed to hear Sherlock. The detective spun on his heel, eyes closed in disgust. _Time to find a new conversation to dissect; the boss is going to make his escape soon under the pretense of finding his wife and I'm not interested in hearing George crow to his about what a good impression he's made._ Sherlock took a step forward, back towards the throng -

- only to see the boy standing right in front of him, leaning in to stare up at Sherlock's eyes keenly.

"It _is_ you!" the child exclaimed happily, rocking back on his heels with a pleased smile on his face.

Sherlock reeled in surprise for a moment, trying to switch gears. He was honestly surprised the boy had found him this quickly; it had been what, ten, twelve minutes? "What gave me away?" he asked, finally.

"We were waiting upstairs," the boy said, pointing to the staircase on the left side of the lobby, the one that led to the residential area of the home. Sherlock could see several little heads poking through the railing on the upper floor, curiously watching the milling crowd below. "That's where I caught sight of you; it took me a while. You didn't come through the front door, did you?" the boy said suspiciously.

"No," Sherlock let a small smile sweep onto his face at the reminder of the boy's observant nature. It had been easy, in the week since his first visit, to write off the entire encounter as some overly optimistic fantasy of his, where he'd given the child more credit than he was due in the hopes that _finally_ Sherlock had found one that might work. He was pleased at the proof that _this_ boy was worth investing some time in.

"Once I saw you walk though, I guessed it was you - you don't really walk like anyone else here," the boy admitted, scrunching up his nose. John had commented on the same thing once upon a time, telling Sherlock he tended to "glide, or maybe stride with a purpose. Whatever you do, Sherlock, it's distinctive."

"Besides, Mr. Smyth, you're wearing the wrong nametag!" the child said brightly, clearly caught up in the excitement of the night.

Sherlock blinked; _surely he doesn't think my name is actually Mr. Brown from last time? _But no, the slight mischievous smile on the boy's face indicated it was more than that; the detective glanced down at his badge but saw nothing different about his than any of the other patrons present; _same font, same plastic card holder, same lanyard_ – _oh,_ _damn_, he thought. Everything was identical, but the one defining characteristic lacking was –

"Miss Sarah at the front desk _always_ gives everyone a special sticker for their name," the boy giggled, automatically bringing up a hand to hide his laughter, "I've never seen one without it."

"I'll have to fix that next time," Sherlock said faintly, internalizing his annoyance at missing this one small detail. _It's always something, _John laughed.

The boy nodded in agreement, and blurted, "We're to take people to their seats now, if you're ready."

Sherlock noted he seemed somewhat embarrassed at his outburst earlier, so Sherlock only replied with, "That would be acceptable."

"Come on," the boy said, though Sherlock was cognizant of the fact that he didn't take the detective's hand to lead him down the hall as some of the other children did, "the adults are supposed to sit back here," he continued, directing Sherlock towards the rows of foldable seats at the back of the auditorium. "We're on the floor up front," he added, pointing to where some of the children were rolling around.

He paused then, toeing the floor shyly, before asking, "Will I see you afterward?"

_Shy, but a bit excited too._ "I think I can spare a few minutes before I need to make my escape," Sherlock offered, suddenly a bit timid himself.

The boy gave a sharp nod and a soft, "Okay then," before shuffling off in the direction of the floor up front. Sherlock watched him take a seat a few feet away from a trio of boys, before being quickly eclipsed by other children as they settled in behind him.

The string quartet was already seated, members most likely having tuned their instruments in the half hour or so before the show. Sherlock noted the cellist was having an especially difficult time keeping a straight face in response to the antics of the children in front of him. An easy smile graced the faces of the two violinists, although their eyes were carefully flitting about the room, while the viola player held her own composure by focusing intently on her music sheets.

The adults had been steadily streaming in while he was occupied with the boy and surveying the quartet; Sherlock hung back for a few more minutes to ensure he could secure a seat on the end of one of the rows and not have to fuss with a bunch of people climbing over him. The buzz of chatter droned in throughout the auditorium, and it took quite a few tries before the emcee for the evening could gather everyone's attention to start the program. Finally the lights dimmed, instruments raised, and Sherlock settled in to enjoy the performance.

* * *

Two hours later, the emcee began to draw the evening to a close, thanking everyone for attending. Sherlock tuned out his speech: _blah blah thanks, blah please donate, blah every pound helps; as if everyone here hasn't heard some variation of that before. _

He rose as soon as he saw signs of others doing the same, filing out into the hallway to wait for the boy back in the lobby. He chose a perch near the counter of the front desk to lean against: it gave him a good view of the hall but was far enough from the renewed refreshments table that everyone would predictably beeline for that he wouldn't get caught up in the crush.

Interspersed in the crowd were various yawning children, sleepily pawing at their eyes. A few of the smallest had clearly lost the battle already and were being carried up the stairs by the monitors on staff for the evening. Sherlock picked out the boy helping lead a girl a few years younger than him. _He's attentive, nurturing, _the detective noted, comparing him to the gaggle of boys recklessly tramping through their peers in search of one last bit of excitement before the staff could corral them upstairs.

The boy caught sight of Sherlock after gently passing his charge off to another monitor, eluding the arm that tried to snatch him up as well. Sherlock watched as he exchanged a few words with her for a moment, before she gave a nod of permission, turning towards the stairs.

The boy scampered in the detective's direction, pausing in front of him with a tired, "Hi." He scrubbed at his face with one hand, trying to appear more awake than he actually felt. The detective caught sight of a small mark briefly, before it was quickly covered up by the dark mop of hair again. _Birthmark, perhaps?_

Sherlock dismissed the thought and greeted him in turn, eyes noting the drooping lids and slightly listing posture. _He's dead on his feet, _Sherlock thought, absurdly pleased the boy had taken the time to say goodnight before finding his bed. _Won't be much for night cases yet, _the more practical side of him mentioned.

"What did you think of the performance?" Sherlock asked a bit awkwardly, after a moment or two of silence.

A look of wonder came onto the boy's face then. "It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever heard," he said reverently. Sherlock was a bit surprised at that – most children cared little for classical music, although he supposed the boy could be referring to the more modern pieces slipped in between Beethoven and Bach. But the admiration in the boy's manner was clear as day. _Not had much exposure to music like this then, _he concluded.

"I'm glad," Sherlock murmured.

The detective truthfully hadn't known what to expect from the post-concert interaction with the boy: _questions, trying to figure out something for the game? Calling the whole thing off, maybe? _Part of him whispered, apprehensive despite himself.

Whatever he had been expecting, it was clear from the yawning face in front of him that nothing of the sort was on the table. Sherlock wasn't sure if the boy had gleaned anything useful from tonight or not, but either way, their evening was shortly drawing to a close.

"Until next time then, sir?" the boy asked hopefully. Sherlock liked to think that hope was for their next encounter rather than at the prospect going to sleep soon, but what did he know?

"Until next time," Sherlock acquiesced.

* * *

**A/N: Once again, thank you so much for all of the Reviews, Favs and Follows. I never expected to get that much love for this story, y'all are awesome! **

On the pedo thing - In my head, Sherlock doesn't get why approaching things this way is a bad idea; yeah, in other people these actions would all be signs of a pedophile, but he's obviously not one, so what's the problem? It's sort of serving as proof that though Sherlock may have grown up a bit, there were still very valid reasons John needs to be around to point out to him when things are, "Not good."

For all those of you very (rightly) concerned about Harry's common sense from the beginning of this chapter, I'm of the mind that a) the Dursleys probably never actively warned him against strangers considering their general treatment of him, and b) for Harry, strangers have honestly most likely been the ones to show him the most kindness. So it's not that far of a leap that he wouldn't outright reject Sherlock's proposal.

In general, I don't advocate this attitude at all. Please do not follow home the next person you meet on the streets.

[Side note - Me-Is-Kohaku left a review that sparked the vision of Sherlock and John as Scooby Doo and Shaggy (complete with Lestraude/Mrs. Hudson/Molly as the rest of the gang)...if anyone feels inspired to make this vision come to life, it could be the best thing ever. PM me if it happens]

**Also, guys, be proud, this chapter was officially the longest thing I've ever written [Papers for school never had to be more than 4k for me, the joy of a science major]. Clearly not on the level of some of the amazing authors on this site, but each chapter is getting a little bigger! **

**Love you all. **


	4. Chapter 4: The Pursuit

**A/N: Disclaimer. **

**Late chapter is late, sorry guys - my housemates just left on Friday for warmer places over spring break, so I spent lots of time with them and less time writing this week. Anyways, hope you enjoy! This scene wound up taking a lot more space than was intended, oops? **

**Chapter 4: The Pursuit**

* * *

Sherlock swept out onto Baker Street on Tuesday morning with a vibrancy that had been absent since his last good murder, a great many months ago. He paused to get a whiff of the morning London air, absently cataloguing the familiar scents as he peered up and down the street. _Motor oil, the ink of newsprint from the morning paper delivery, various baked goods from Speedy's café – smells as if the special today is a cheese tart of some kind. John will be disappointed, those are his favorite._

However it was not the smells that were of interest this morning, but the view; mid-morning on a Tuesday was certainly not the peak hour of traffic for Baker Street, so the detective's perfunctory glance around was actually quite informative.

His eyes slid over the apartment blocks across the way, noting signs of damage and strain on the doorframe. _Looks like someone's had a domestic again and tried to take it out on the door. _The blue car idling in front of the flat a few blocks down – _must be going on holiday to the country, with all of that equipment on the luggage rack – _drew the attention of the entire street when the man behind the wheel started laying on the horn. Sherlock continued to observe as the family in question noisily streamed out of the flat, piling into the car with last minute items in hand, and drove off.

_But most of interest…_

_There_, he thought, pinpointing one of Mycroft's 'nondescript' black cars parked just behind the space the family had occupied. _They're only nondescript when noticing them doesn't automatically indicate you've got a watcher, _Sherlock snorted.

_Nothing for it then, the tube will have to do, _he decided, hitching his duffel bag a little higher on his shoulder and abruptly striding off towards the nearest station.

It was barely audible, but Sherlock had his ears trained, waiting for the soft slam of a car door indicating the man had decided to follow afoot. _At least this one's got some brains, _he thought. The last one had been determined to stay in his car the whole time, _really tripped up when I made for the tube_, he smirked, pleased.

Upon descending into the depths of the tube station, he made for the most rapidly moving lane – _lane one hasn't even got his card out yet, two's weighed down with several large bags, three's out of order, ahhh the businessman in lane four; late for work this morning? Perfect_. He swiped his oyster card just after the man in question and found himself a bit of wall to lean against while waiting for the train.

The vantage point gave him a clear view from his peripherals of the man following him: dark hair and eyes, moderately priced suit, _though not as high end as the ones Mycroft usually employs. _He was wearing an earpiece, into which he was now frantically muttering. _Bit nervous, this one. Thirty seconds without a visual and he's already panicking to his superiors. _

When the motion out of the corner of his eye diminished into the mundane task of pulling out a paper to read, Sherlock figured the man had caught sight of him again. _Play along till the train arrives? _John suggested, with an air of exasperation.

Sherlock nodded decisively, and occupied himself with counting the various ways this tube station had broken the health inspector's code. It wasn't exactly a fun game, since he was in and out of this particular station fairly regularly and had a passing knowledge of it all already, but it engaged the five minutes necessary without giving the man much to report back.

When the train arrived, Sherlock headed immediately for the door to the carriage in the direction furthest from the stalker, towards the front area. The man following him slipped into the carriage just behind his in an effort to remain unnoticed; _fool move_, Sherlock thought, because it gave him plenty of time to swap clothing. He ducked behind a rather large man – _must be over two meters at least – _who had been forced by the sudden influx of people to lunge for the support pole to avoid falling into the middle-aged woman seated in front of him. Sherlock started peeling off his outer coat as soon as the doors shut, while the man was distracted apologizing to the woman. His fingers quickly ran down the buttons of his shirt in a practiced motion, a vague frown on his face as he tried to plan his next move.

As he was untucking his shirt, he belatedly realized the murmuring wasn't the usual purposeless chatter of a crowd waiting for their stop; rather he happened to be the focus of it and what looked to be several gawping looks, _most likely for undressing on the tube, _John commented in a blasé manner.

The detective scoffed at one blatant offender, "Oh relax, would you? I've just got a stain on my shirt and need to swap it before work."

His words appeased most of his audience, so he quickly stripped the shirt off to reveal his undershirt –

"That's no' coming off too, is it?" Asked one older man still giving him the stink eye.

_And that's why taking a cab would have been better – the smarter ones don't ask questions. Damn Mycroft. _

Sherlock just sneered at the man and reached into the duffel at his feet for a British-flag patterned t-shirt, one he'd picked up off a street vendor for eight quid a few days ago. He drew it out with a flourish in the man's direction for good measure, before pulling it over his head. A hasty glance behind him showed he was still safely ensconced behind the large pole-clinger, so he extracted the matching baseball cap and donned it quickly.

"Your boss ought to fire you for coming in in that," the old man grumbled, still peeved.

Sherlock ignored him and stuffed his previous garb into the bag, counting down the stops until he could get off. As luck would have it, the large man hopped off a few stops early; Sherlock spied from under the brim of his cap as the stalker belatedly realized that the object obstructing his view of his target through the compartment windows was gone, and yet he still could not see Sherlock's coat. The panicked glance out the closing doors, the frantic lunge past the crowd, and the way he broke into a run after emerging from his carriage all told Sherlock that he'd succeeded in losing his tail.

_Excellent, _he smirked. _You're a bad man, _John laughed. _Mycroft will have a fit._

* * *

_I _do_ look ridiculous_, _the old man was right,_ he thought after catching a glimpse of himself in the reflection of a shop window.

_Because the deerstalker is so much better?_ John asked sarcastically. _And there're photographs of that one. Enjoy your anonymity. _

After ditching his stalker, Sherlock only had to wait a few stops before arriving at his destination. A leisurely stroll out of the tube for a few blocks led him here, where brightly colored posters decorated the massive gates in front of him, all loudly proclaiming, "Welcome to the London Zoo!"

The detective breezed through the ticket counter and bag check with the masses, giving the map in his hand a cursory glance. The home was schedule to have dropped off their children at 9:45, just before the zoo opened; it was half-ten now, so Sherlock would have to do a bit of searching to find the boy in the crowd.

_Or let him come to me…_

There were several picnic areas sprinkled throughout the park according to the map, some isolated near particularly interesting exhibits, but the majority clustered around the Terrace Restaurant; _Lunch was 'included' on the event schedule, so best bet is that restaurant – the other places are kiosks at best as stated by the website. They've got small children with them who get hungry quickly, and will want to avoid most of the crush to keep from losing anyone – so probably a table or two reserved for an early lunch on the outskirts? That gives me about half an hour to get in place, _he estimated roughly.

Sherlock began walking down the most direct path towards the canteen, made easier by the lively animal-themed signs helpfully providing directions at every possible intersection.

He soon came out to a large, open patio, covered in wrought iron chairs and tables laden with the stains of an outdoor life – there were signs they had been spottily scrubbed recently, but Sherlock noticed people leaning around the larger dabs of pigeon excrement. The crowd was paltry at the moment, a few families having a late morning tea before beginning the excitement. The smells of cooking from the kitchen indicated the restaurant expected business would soon pick up though; Sherlock began perusing the outskirts, looking for any kind of reservation sign on the larger tables.

_Nothing in place yet, and twenty minutes left. Perhaps the staff just hasn't laid them out yet? No, they'd risk the tables filling up; wouldn't want to do that to such a large group of prospective clients. _

_Check upstairs? _John proposed, drawing Sherlock's attention to the glass-lined terrace a floor up. _Of course, the "Terrace Restaurant?" Stupid, Sherlock, they'd want the best view, _he chided himself.

A set of outdoor stairs to the right quickly brought him to the second level; a sweeping glance revealed roughly the same number of occupants as below, _though there are two longer tables over at the edge there, and a woman who looks as if she's waiting – book in front of her, but she keeps glancing around, searching for her party. Maybe they're inside getting food? _

It was an educated deduction, but the only way to be sure was to slip inside and confirm for himself.

The interior was similar to a higher-end restaurant, clearly refurbished more recently than the outdoor furniture. A glass paneled expanse to the right provided more space for eating. To the left was a darker hallway that presumably led to the other set of stairs. Sherlock passed both the female and male loos before coming to the mouth of the steps, but the hallway extended a bit beyond that.

_Second set of kitchens? _John guessed.

_No, I don't think so,_ Sherlock responded as he took a step down the hallway. A sign on the first door declared it the "Elephant room."

_Of course! Party rooms – what better way to keep the children corralled than to lock them all in a room for lunch? If not the elephant room, then the next one down – _

The orange placard on the second door enthusiastically proclaimed itself the "Tiger room;" just below was a white piece of paper with the typed notification that the room was reserved for the "St. James' party."

_Bingo. _

_Slight hang up though, Sherlock – you can't exactly lie in wait in the room. _Sherlock waved his hands in a dismissive manner at John's voice of practicality. It was no bother that he couldn't begin his observation at lunch, he'd just needed confirmation of the boy's whereabouts without having to traipse across the entire park to find him. With that issue settled, Sherlock headed back outside to a small table pressed up against the glass railing of the second level eating area, prepared to hold vigil until the boy arrived.

A server came by shortly to inquire as to what he needed; Sherlock requested tea and the morning paper. He didn't have a book to occupy himself like the other woman waiting, so he took a page from his morning stalker and gave himself something commonplace to do.

It wasn't long before Sherlock spied a group of around forty children trooping up to the restaurant, herded by eight volunteers. Closer inspection showed that everyone had some sort of a nametag, this time in the shape of different animals and colors. _No, only eight different animals, and each animal has its own colors – a grouping system, then, to tie some of the children with the adults. _

His eyes caught sight of the boy, somewhere in the back of the herd. A green turtle marked his chest, which Sherlock matched to a middle-aged woman in a sundress near the front of the pack. _That's who I'll need to be keeping a look out for. _

The boy appeared happy, a light on his face that had certainly been absent the first day they met at the playground. The look of wonder from the concert was back, eyes big as he tried to intake everything about his surroundings. Sherlock observed from above until the boy disappeared into the restaurant below him, and settled in to wait once more.

When he had seen the trip to the zoo listed as an activity, the detective had known this would be a much different encounter from the concert: the zoo was an enormous, open area with a constant flux of visitors in and out. At the home, the boy had had the advantage of a closed environment, controlled entry, and familiarity with around fifty percent of the people present, _not to mention that those fifty percent were easily identifiable due to the height differences between them and the ones he was unfamiliar with. _

It would be a waste of time to situate himself somewhere in the zoo and wait for the boy to notice him. Considering the boy's likely elevated excitement level, the difficulty of searching through such a large crowd, and the fact that he might not be expecting Sherlock (it had been not even four days from the concert, and the only data the boy had to extract from had been the week he'd waited previously), the likelihood of finding a passive Sherlock was next to none.

So Sherlock decided to approach this meeting completely differently and go on the offensive a bit. His ensemble would help with blending into the background: he'd specifically chosen nondescript tourist clothing that would camouflage key identifying features, such as his hair, and a camera lens from the duffel would do much to hide his face – _As my wedding proved, _John sighed, put out – although the model chosen was notable for its rather loud shutter noise.

All of this boiled down to one fact: Sherlock wasn't playing fair this time.

_Let's see how he does with a follower. _

* * *

Roughly an hour after the children had trooped in, they stampeded out of the restaurant with barely contained excitement. Sherlock had maintained his post at the railing, watching as the park filled up, tea stone cold and untouched beside him.

_Time to begin._

He reached into the duffel resting by his chair and drew out his camera, starting to take photos of the area around him. And if the boy and his turtle group featured heavily in some of the latter shots, no one was around to call him out for it.

There they were, separated into eight single file lines, each with an adult at the head.

_Click._

A zoomed in shot displayed the practically vibrating children calling out where they wanted to go first.

_Click._

The woman with the orange mouse, calmly holding counsel with the other adults, _most likely about when and where to meet up_.

_Click._

Finally, the boy, equally excited but mouth shut, merely shifting side to side repeatedly.

_Click._

And with that, they were off, splitting into groups on the three paths that led back to the zoo proper. Bill settled some time ago, Sherlock quickly grabbed his bag and hopped down the outside stairs onto the leftmost path, the one the turtles and purple cats had taken. A sign declared it the way to the penguins, parrots, and the "Butterfly Paradise," much to the elation of the five little girls that comprised the purple cats.

Sherlock maintained a good distance between himself and the two groups at first, content to start slow. He busied himself snapping photos of the general surroundings periodically, pausing at the penguin exhibit with the ebb and flow of the bevy of families separating him from the children.

In the butterfly conservatory he took the chance to draw closer to the boy. The purple cats' monitor had enlisted the services of the turtles' woman to help contain the little girls, who were charging after the butterflies in the hopes of attracting their attention.

"Girls, girls! You mustn't chase after them like that, they're fragile!" The cat woman cried, hastening after three of her charges. The children were halfway off the path already, attempting to hunt down several _Danaus plexippus._

_You could just call them 'Monarch butterflies' like everyone else, _John murmured in fond exasperation.

_Everything has a proper name, _Sherlock returned snippily, distracted with taking a shot of the cautious face of the boy; he'd paused several feet away from his group and seemed intently focused on something Sherlock couldn't see.

_Says the man who can't even remember Lestrade's first name? _John countered. Sherlock could imagine the incredulous look on his face, akin to the one he'd worn after finding out Sherlock had deleted information about the solar system.

_Do shut up, I'm working. _

"No you don't, dearie," came the admonishing voice of the turtle woman as she grasped a fourth little girl about the waist, preventing a pounce onto a _Papilio machaon. _

_Yellow swallowtail, _John whispered, just to be contrary.

Sherlock ignored him, clicking away. He moved a few steps nearer, trying to figure out what on earth the boy was concentrating on so hard. Camera still lifted to his face, he finally caught sight of the _Aphantopus hyperantus _delicately resting on the back of the boy's slightly out-reached hand.

_It's just a Ringlet, they're all over the place around here, _John voiced, surprised.

Sherlock noted the look of care on the boy's face, as if greeting an old friend. A hint of that wonder was back, which Sherlock found rather remarkable. Instead of chasing after the more brightly colored butterflies as his peers had done, the boy was entirely wrapped up with a plain brown one he probably saw everyday in the summer. _Only one eye on each wing, nothing particularly fascinating about the pattern, so why does he seem so entranced?_

_Click. _

Wrapped up in his thoughts, the detective had absently pressed the shutter; the noise startled the Ringlet into taking off for a tree.

Sherlock reached for something to say in the face of the boy's disappointment. "Ah, sorry mate; made for a great shot though?" he offered.

The boy merely affected a ghost of a smile, not bothering to properly look at the man who had interrupted him. Sherlock seized his chance and made off towards the exit before the boy began to pay closer attention. They had the entire day in front of them, and he didn't want to spoil the game just yet.

* * *

He loitered near the flamingoes, just outside of the conservatory. He'd wanted to regain a little ground between them, but several different paths conjoined here, and he wasn't certain which direction they'd take. _The big cats, the bugs, or the monkeys? If it was just the boys, I'd put money on the bug house, but that purple cat monitor looked as if she wanted to stay latched onto the turtle woman for help; the girls probably won't even be willing to step foot in the bug area. _

He heard the wail of the purple cat woman before anything else. "Girls, _please_, wait just a moment! We need to figure out where we want to go next!"

"The lions!" One of the girls shrieked, quickly drawing approving noises from the rest of her group.

It might have been decided then, but a little blond turtle caught sight of the sign displaying pictures of the arachnids in the bug house and demanded to go there next. He immediately clamped onto another turtle and started towing him in that direction before being halted by the monitor. Sherlock noted his boy looking back and forth between the two groups, green eyes somewhat distressed.

The girls, just like Sherlock predicted, absolutely refused to visit the bug area. Sherlock caught a nice shot of the somewhat queasy look on the cat woman's face; _apparently not much for bugs herself. _

But the turtle woman was apparently made of sterner stuff, because she gently suggested the purple cats go to see the lions, while she took the turtles through the bug house, then the monkeys, then on towards the cats.

"It's all one big loop, you see," she told the purple cat woman, with a soft pat on her hand. "We'll meet you on the other side,"

"But I want to see the monkeys too," one little cat with pigtails objected.

The first girl, the one who had sparked the outcry for lions, wrinkled her nose at that. "No you don't," she said bossily, "they'll get all over your hair and pick at you for bugs!" She demonstrated, attacking the other girl's pigtails.

"Kelly stop it, leave Madison alone!" The cat woman chided.

The turtle woman broke in then, "And look Madison, the map says there are spider monkeys and macaques in a separate exhibit right next door to the lions, too. I'm sure Miss Pamela will take you to see them while you're waiting for us."

Miss Pamela just nodded and told the girls to, "Come along now! It's not far, and I think they've got a feeding show for the tigers in fifteen minutes."

Sherlock snapped a few more pictures of the flamingoes to bide his time before following the turtles into the bug house. He slowly perused the exhibit, hiding behind a family with a particularly obnoxious ten year old. Sherlock was counting all the different poisonous bugs on display and the effects their toxins had on the human body to block out the annoying family, while keeping an eye on his turtle.

The boy didn't seem to feel one way or another about the various insects on display; he wasn't overly enthusiastic the way the blond had been, who was now zooming back and forth across the hall, nose pressed up against the glass, or even vaguely apprehensive, like some of the adults present who tended to keep away from the walls. _Food for thought. _

They soon reached the exit of the house and headed for the "Meet the Monkeys" area, pausing briefly to exclaim over the anteaters – "What the devil are those?" came the blond's sidekick. He was quickly scolded for language by the turtle monitor, before she read off the information plaque and ushered them onwards. _Probably wants to meet up with the purple cat woman sooner rather than later. _

Sherlock was clicking away again - the boy's eyes had gone wide, and he lingered near the anteaters, gaze sliding around the bushy tail, the lumbering stride, the long, thin face.

One last click had the boy whirling to glimpse Sherlock standing a good five meters away, camera still in place. He had a peculiar look on his face, trying to work something out. Sherlock just twisted a bit to get a different angle of the animal behind the boy, ignoring him completely.

The child remained only a moment longer, and then scampered off before his group had the chance to notice he was missing.

_He's beginning to see, _Sherlock thought to himself.

* * *

The monkeys had been amusing; they held no qualms about jumping around on the visitors, much to the delight of the children. But they were certainly not shy about letting people know when they'd had enough – a particularly unfortunate man had ended up with a face full of fruit for getting a little too close to an antisocial one in the hopes of a good picture.

_Nearly lost your camera there, too, _John laughed. Sherlock gave a wry smile at that: one had been exceedingly fascinated with the ties attached to the zipper of his duffel bag, still thrown over his shoulder. The detective had been caught unawares, as the monkey approached from above while he was taking photos at the outskirts. A sudden weight on his shoulders unbalanced the shot and nearly caused Sherlock to drop his camera.

_What the – _

_You seem to have acquired a new friend, _John snickered. The detective arched his neck, craning around to see what on earth had happened. When it became apparent a monkey was nibbling on his zipper, he gave himself a shake, trying to dislodge it, to no avail.

_Where's Lestrade and his camera phone when you need it? _John was nearly beside himself in Sherlock's head now, to Sherlock's growing annoyance. He briefly contemplated ripping the creature off – _NOT GOOD, Sherlock, really not good! _John yelled, sobering. _There're children around, one in particular you're trying to impress, remember? _

_I'm not trying to _impress_ him, John, I'm _evaluating _him. There's a difference, _he responded. Nevertheless John's voice had done the job and he calmly crouched to set his camera down before beginning to undo the tie on the zipper that had enthralled the creature so much. Once he had it loose, the monkey eagerly grabbed it and scurried away up a tree. The detective had stood up after him, picking up his camera once more to take a shot of the monkey, only to hear quiet giggles of the boy behind him.

_It seems you cannot remain unnoticed on the outskirts after all. _

Sherlock turned and snapped a blatant photo of the boy laughing at him, a faint smirk evident just below the camera. The boy's giggles slowed and he gave the detective that considering look again, but Sherlock just sauntered off under the pretext of framing another shot, camera still in front of his face.

He had left the monkey area ahead of the children, eager to avoid anymore incidents. _I'm not a climbing frame, _he sniffed. _I hope you teach your child that, John. I'll not have it clambering all over me. _

Mental John didn't dignify that with a response, although Sherlock did get the impression of rolled eyes somewhere in there.

Sherlock followed the signs to the lions' exhibit, to head off the reunion between the turtles and cats. He found no sign of the little girls and briefly wondered if they'd finally escaped their monitor after all, until he caught sight of an entirely too calm Miss Pamela for that to be the case. Further scrutiny – _there, that's one of the pigtails – _showed the little girls had pressed themselves as close to the bars as possible, in front of several larger children and adults.

It was just as he was deciding whether to draw nearer or find somewhere more obscure to linger that his phone began to ring from within his trouser pocket. A quick glance at the screen revealed it was his brother, _probably calling to check up on me after this morning_. Sherlock knew if he didn't answer it a whole slew of problems could crop up, so despite how little he wanted to talk to his brother just then, he ran his thumb across the screen and pulled his phone towards his ear.

"Yes, brother dear? I'm working," he drawled, trying to convey the depths of his annoyance in his voice alone. He'd perfected the sulking act long ago because he knew it peeved Mycroft the most; it was less effective across the phone, but exasperation and indignation were an art form to the Holmes' brothers.

"What on earth are you doing at a zoo, Sherlock?" Mycroft demanded from the other end.

"Data for a case," Sherlock stated, careful to maintain the air of irritation, but not draw Mycroft's interest too much. He began to pace on the edge of the path a bit, leaving the way clear for passerby.

"Something you couldn't locate online?" Sherlock could hear the eyebrow raise, the quiet dig for answers.

"A question of texture," he responded, before going on the offensive. "And do stop sending your newest minions to follow me, Mycroft, it's getting entirely too troublesome to avoid them," he sneered.

"Problems, brother dear?" Mycroft taunted back.

"Hardly," he said, voice full of scorn. "I'm not someone you can conveniently lob your raw recruits on, Mycroft, so that they can gain experience before being tossed out into the big, bad world." His eyes narrowed as he stared down a light pole nearby, emphasizing the end of his sentence.

"Stop having me followed, or at least be a little more subtle about it: I just might break one of your new toys," he threatened obliquely, before his brother had a chance to respond. He took the moment of silence on the other end as acquiescence and hung up, shoving his phone back into his pocket. A beeping noise informed him he'd received a text, but he chose to ignore it for the moment.

He turned back towards the lions, bringing the camera back up to his face. A quick flick of the zoom feature helped him to locate the purple cat monitor again, only to see she'd been joined at the fence line by the turtles when he had his back turned. _Must've come up the path when I wasn't paying attention, _he thought.

He searched for the boy next, finding him against the fence as well, hand wrapped loosely around the bars as he stared not at the cats, but in the detective's direction with a vague frown.

_He _has_ noticed me then. But he still looks troubled, can't decide if it's just paranoia – after all, there is something of a natural progression between the exhibits; I've seen that girl in the green blouse on eight separate occasions to the hour, not to mention that obnoxious family that was with us until catching sight of the washrooms across the way. Let's see what he does with it. _

Though the girls were still quite enthralled with the giant cats, the boys were soon eager to be off again. Miss Pamela, seeming to have grown a spine in the time they'd been separated, succeeded in pulling her charges away from the lions with the promise of a petting zoo, and headed off in that direction. The turtles were decidedly not content to pet sheep, and thus went their own way once more.

They meandered through the llamas, alpacas and camels, exclaimed over the komodo dragons, and gleefully mimicked the wallabies, hopping all over the place for a good several minutes.

The boy had taken to walking behind the group a ways; his gaze still displayed awe over the animals, but he seemed to be on the lookout as well. Sherlock had felt eyes on him more than once, though he still kept up the pretense of photographing the animals.

"Harry? Do keep up, dear," the monitor chided gently.

"…Sorry Miss Dana," he chirruped back after a moment more.

"Are you tired? We're almost back to the entrance, headed back to the home in a bit," she offered kindly.

"No," the boy shook his head, "I'm fine," was all the response he gave her. _And yet he continues to separate himself from the group…_

_He's trying to draw my attention, _Sherlock realized belatedly. It had been subtle, but as the detective paused to evaluate his photos, he noted that less and less of the pictures had included the entire turtle group; the most recent shots were just focused on the boy, with a few background images here and there when Sherlock was trying to maintain his cover.

_Clever child, _Sherlock mused.

"Now boys," the voice of the monitor broke in from up ahead, "we've only got half an hour left before the bus will be back to pick us up."

Complaints instantly cropped up, whining about staying longer. "Boys, boys! Listen up, lads. I'm letting you decide what you want to do last – the entrances to both the aquarium and the reptile house are just here. I'm going to be sitting on that bench right over there," she pointed to a bench resting beneath a nearby tree, with a clear view of both exits, "and I'll wait for you. Come find me immediately after you're done, or you'll be grounded for the next month," she warned.

The boys were vibrating again – _do all children do that? _Sherlock wondered abstractly – and quickly bolted off, three for the reptile house, but his boy and one other, a younger child who looked fearfully in the direction of the reptiles, walked towards the aquarium. Sherlock was somewhat relieved to note that it was neither the blond nor his partner, the most boisterous of the lot; after a moment, the green-eyed boy reached out and took the hand of the younger child, leading him inside.

_Bit irresponsible of her, isn't it? _John asked in a mild tone.

_Not really, _Sherlock thought back absently as he dutifully slipped into the aquarium. _There's only one way in and out of these buildings, and despite how excited they were, the boys _are_ showing signs of fatigue – they'll be wanting to leave soon as it is._

_Her bench is also an excellent vantage point; money is it was designed that way for this express purpose. _

A sign nearby requested that no photography be employed inside due to the flash upsetting the fish, so Sherlock let the camera dangle loosely from his left hand. He'd waited long enough outside that the boys were already a room ahead, so he leisurely strolled through the exhibits, brushing up on his tropical fish knowledge.

The next room bore the rather ominous title, "Secrets of the Deep;" images of the _Melanocetus johnsonii – alright, the humpback anglerfish, _he thought, heading off John's scoff – decorated the walls, including various factoids about those organisms that dwelled below the epipelagic zone.

_Rather ugly, isn't it? _John commented in response to the seemingly disproportional fish, its bulbous head entirely full of giant teeth.

_What do fish care for beauty? _Sherlock disparaged back. _It's efficient – an innocent-looking lure to draw in its prey, something that's evolved completely naturally? _That's_ elegance._

He prowled around the room as John fell silent, taking the time to read the blurbs of interest. This was information he had little use for, as it discussed the goings-on of the deepest parts of the ocean; if Sherlock had ever known any of it, he'd deleted it long ago and probably would again shortly, but it passed the time for now and was mildly diverting.

Having perused everything of note here, he moved on to the next room. It held several tanks set into the walls with more text about their contents, along with several pillars permitting a three-hundred-sixty degree view of jellyfish, leafy sea dragons, king crabs, and clownfish.

Several people clustered around the pillars and the various exhibits; a few rested on the low benches provided in the middle of the room, including the boy, who was staring straight at Sherlock. He gestured towards the spot next to him in invitation. Sherlock considered his options and joined the boy, keeping his eyes focused on the room around them.

"And where's your young charge?" he inquired politely, in reference to the younger child from earlier.

"Joshua's trying to get a look at the jellyfish," the boy replied, gesturing towards one of the pillars. He took control of the situation then, stating baldly, "You've been taking pictures of me."

"Have I?" Sherlock asked, watching one of the crabs scuttle about its home. The boy hadn't made it clear yet that he understood it was Sherlock, so Sherlock pretended ignorance. "I suppose you've been in a few of my shots, yes, but that's hardly my fault – you were in the way of the animals."

"Let me see them," the boy demanded, surprising Sherlock into looking at him at last.

From this close, without the camera in the way, the boy was able to finally get a good peek at his eyes. He searched them for a moment, before letting out a quiet exhale.

"Oh good, it _is_ you," he confirmed, relaxing.

_Always the eyes that give me away, _Sherlock thought.

_They _are_ pretty distinctive, _John agreed at the back of his mind. _The papers have called you piercing before, because of them. _

"Very good," the detective said aloud, when it became apparent the boy was waiting for some sort of response. "That's twice now, once more to go."

The boy merely nodded, a somber look coming over him for a moment. He visibly pushed it away, before asking courteously, "How did you like the zoo?"

"It was a…novel experience," Sherlock conceded, a faint smile easing onto his face.

The boy began to grin, a slow, bright look. "Monkeys not your favorite?" He teased lightly, giving Sherlock a sidelong glance.

Sherlock just snorted. "I think you could say he got the better of me."

The boy nodded again, a happier motion than before. "I've never been to the zoo, either," he confessed.

Sherlock had guessed as much from the awestruck looks occupying half of his camera memory, but remained silent, letting the boy share what he wanted.

"It was pretty amazing," the boy added. "I think I'd like to come back someday. The animals all seem pretty happy here; it was…nice."

Sherlock wondered at that last sentence; the boy seemed to be referencing something else, but without more data Sherlock couldn't extrapolate what, and he could tell pushing now would be detrimental. While he might not know much about people, he did know how to get information out of a witness: now was not the time to go about digging.

So instead he opened his mouth to impart some trivial comment about the lions, when they were interrupted by who he belatedly recognized to be Joshua.

"Harry? I'm done with the jellyfish," he announced, questioningly glancing over at Sherlock.

The boy stood up and took Joshua's hand again, as Sherlock looked at his watch.

"You'd best be off – your thirty minutes are nearly up," he told them, remaining seated.

"Are you coming?" Harry asked, pausing as Joshua tried to tug him along in alarm at the news.

"Think I'll have a look at the sharks," Sherlock shook his head, pointing along the wall behind him.

"See you later, then," the boy dipped his head, allowing Joshua to lead him back towards the entrance.

"Until next time," Sherlock commented at his back. He reclined for a minute more, processing the events of the day. _Quite interesting, all told. _He really did get up and have a look at the sharks then, partially out of curiosity but also to give the children time to regroup. Now that he'd been 'caught,' it was no longer imperative he observe their movements.

The sharks were rather chilling, with that dead-eyed stare penetrating through the tempered glass. They were ensconced behind a huge panel occupying the entirety of the back wall; some zoo employee was trussed up in divers' gear cleaning in the background. Sherlock observed for a few minutes before turning again to the other exhibits in the room, less interested in the sharks than he had initially thought.

_That's been long enough, _he decided after roaming the entire room. _At least fifteen minutes. _He made his way back outside, sunlight bright after the coolly lit aquarium. A quick glance confirmed the turtles were no longer occupying the nearby bench, so he headed towards the exit; it wasn't far from the aquarium, as they'd done quite the loop of the park today.

Sherlock caught a glimpse of a school bus pulling out as he stepped through the exit; a hand waved at him from one of the back windows, and he found himself giving a quick gesture back.

Shaking his head slightly in surprise, he turned to hail a cab back to Baker Street. As he was getting in the car, he pulled out his phone to read the text from earlier:

_Be sure not to bring home any more pets, dear brother. It seems that one was enough, don't you think? – MH. _

* * *

**A/N: To all the anonymous/guest reviewers out there, I can't say thank you personally, but please know that your feedback is greatly appreciated and loved! It makes me stupid happy to hear people are enjoying this. I got a review on Friday asking where the chapter was, which both made me laugh and did a good job to kick my butt into writing gear. To everyone else who has kindly left words for this story/followed/favorited, thank you very much!**

Anyways, as I said up top, sorry this didn't get out on Friday, although in my defense it _is _still the weekend :D. Aside from the housemate craziness, this chapter was sitting at 1500 words for days, refusing to be written. And then it turned into this mammoth. Originally we were supposed to fit both visits two and three in this chapter and be done with the game, but that obviously didn't happen. Hope this was entertaining enough!

On the London Zoo, I've never actually been myself, but I did base the path they travel on a true map of the zoo. You can google it if you're interested in following along, although I think they've got a 2011 version up, so the Terrace Restaurant is currently labeled as the Oasis Cafe on there. [It does exist though - google it too!]

On a side note to satisfy my curiosity, how many of you saw 'zoo' or 'reptile house' and immediately thought - Here comes the parseltongue/magic? And how many are disappointed it didn't end up happening? XD. We'll get there eventually, promise.

Much love,  
Kris


	5. Interlude: A Guest at Baker Street

**A/N: Disclaimer. **

Sorry guys, just an interlude to tide you over till next week**. **

**Interlude: A Guest at Baker Street**

* * *

"Sherlock, look who's come to visit!" Mrs. Hudson cried from the stairwell, that high-pitched happy voice she used when something pleasant had happened.

_Someone she knows then, and hasn't seen in a while, _Sherlock deduced absently, mind still turning over the events at the zoo. He was reclined in his leather chair, feet in front of him and crossed at the ankle, hands idly toying with the memory card from his camera.

Most of his brain was occupied with lazily debating about the next and final event he would attend with the boy; another crafts day was occurring tomorrow, but he'd already made his feelings clear on that activity, and he really did prefer to have more time between visits – it gave them both space to stew for a while.

_Molly, perhaps? _Another side of him suggested quietly, the one that was always partially engaged in his surroundings. _Could be Lestrade,_ John's voice offered, clearly more interested in something new than the topic that had been circling around his brain for hours now.

_If not the crafts day, I'm left with the museum visit on Friday, or the park outing Saturday. Neither of those is ideal, _he frowned slightly, itching to get on with his postponed visit in the staff room. _Next week's agenda will have to do, _he settled, taking a moment to recall the schedule.

_Not Lestrade, _the background voice corrected. _He would have called first if it was about a case; we don't 'do' get-togethers. _

The voice mulled it over again, _I suppose it could be Mycroft – it would be just like him to come over and pout after I ignored his text earlier, and Mrs. Hudson won't have known we've been in contact since he was last here several weeks ago. Plenty of time for her to get worked up again. _

"I see you've gotten rid of my chair."

_Oh_, the background voice whispered, _hadn't considered that. _

Sherlock made an effort to bring himself fully back to awareness, already partially thrust out of his thoughts by the presence of that voice coming from somewhere _not_ inside his head. Rapid blinking rehydrated his eyes to the point where he could focus with them, and they immediately twitched to the man standing in the doorway. His body remained perfectly still throughout the entire process, aside from the slight movement necessary to palm the memory card into a pocket.

"John," he acknowledged, "what are you doing here?"

"Thought I'd pop in to say hello," John answered, taking a few steps in to allow Mrs. Hudson to pass. "The chair?" he reiterated, easily picking up the pattern of double conversation again.

Sherlock ran an assessing gaze over his former flat mate, digging to confirm it was just a social visit. The creases in the shirt gave the impression it had been folded for several days at least, _somewhat odd since John used to hang that shirt – decreased closet space maybe? _Slight pudging around his belt told Sherlock that Mary's home cooking was suiting him, although in combination with the hidden tension in his eyebrows, also indicated he'd begun to worry over the baby. _John always did have a tendency to eat his troubles. _Slight bags under his eyes said the battle-dreams were back, _not unusual considering he's had time to settle down into routine again. _

But there were no blaring indicators of a greater problem, so Sherlock returned to the conversation at hand.

"I needed to be able to see my experiments," he said dismissively, waving a hand in the direction of the kitchen counter, heavily laden with equipment.

"Because walking a few meters was too much work, I suppose?" John quipped back, content to be amused with Sherlock's quirks now that he was no longer confronted with them everyday.

"It seemed silly when there was a much easier solution at hand," Sherlock affirmed, in a blasé manner.

"Oh, ignore him John, he's pleased to see you," Mrs. Hudson beamed, hands clasped at her chest. "We _both _are."

John had already opened his mouth to respond with a blanket pleasantry of some kind when Mrs. Hudson reached over to pat him on the arm, "See how nice it is when you remember to come visit?"

John's mouth snapped shut at that, a slightly annoyed look of contrition coming onto his face.

Sherlock had deduced from the initial stiffness between the two when he first returned to Baker Street that Mrs. Hudson had been less than pleased with John's actions during the interim period of his death, and had to hide a smirk; _she'll be hanging that over his head for the next few years at least. _

"Now, sit down and tell us all about how Mary and the baby are doing," she directed, pushing him towards one of the chairs nearby. "I'll set us up with some tea and biscuits."

John did as he was told and grabbed two of the chairs, bringing them closer to Sherlock's own seat. Mrs. Hudson began puttering around in the kitchen, full of quiet huffs over the mess "that boy had made." John had that smile back again in the face of Sherlock getting scolded – all was right with the world it seemed.

"Mary's doing well," he said, pitching his voice so Mrs. Hudson could hear him from where she was pulling down cups out of the cabinets. "Had an appointment a few weeks back, the doctor said she was almost to the end of her first trimester. Mary's just pleased she's not sick every morning anymore."

"That's the rub of pregnancy, isn't it? At least she's almost through it now," Mrs. Hudson commented as she brought in the tea service. "Here you are boys, just like you like it."

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson," John smiled as he reached for a cup. He fixed it as he used to, no milk, two sugars, but then added an extra lump. _Developed a bit of a sweet tooth, have we? There's those worries coming out again. _

Sherlock just quirked the edge of his mouth up in Mrs. Hudson's direction as a sign of thanks, and reached for his own cup.

"How's the new house, then? Nice to be settled I'd imagine," the landlady chattered, in her element as a host. Sherlock was content to let her carry the conversation, basking in the presence of the familiar. As long as Mrs. Hudson was prattling on, questions about his most recent activities weren't being asked, although he wasn't naïve enough to believe he could escape the night entirely avoiding the topic – detecting made up his entire life, after all, and there was rarely much else to ask him about.

But though he was delighted to see John, he really was, he found that he was eager to keep his escapades to himself. John was likely to pitch a fit and throw up all sorts of roadblocks; it was unavoidable, but not something they needed to go through right this minute.

"John, won't you stay for dinner?" Mrs. Hudson invited, after the basic social niceties were over, clearly eager to have her boys under one roof for a while again.

"Can't, I'm afraid – I promised Mary I'd pick up Chinese for dinner in a while. She's been craving soy sauce and milk lately, bit odd," he said, face going a tad green.

"Oh! That reminds me! I've left a roast in the oven, be right back boys," Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, quickly scuttling back down the stairs.

"So…any new cases on since the wedding?" John inquired, elbows braced on the arms of his chair.

"A few," Sherlock acceded. "I'm in the research stage right now."

"Anything I can help with?" John asked, trying and failing to sound nonchalant. His eagerness came through in the careful delivery of his words, the slight clenching of his fists at the word "case."

"Not at the moment, although that may change in the next few weeks. Depends on my mark," Sherlock told him, slightly amused and secretly grateful he hadn't lost his blogger.

John looked surprised at the lack of specifics, and slid an unobtrusive glance towards the wall with the smiley face, where Sherlock usually mapped out the cases he was working on. When he saw the wall was bare, he turned to Sherlock with a hint of suspicion. "Where're the details? I'd be happy to look them over for you."

John couldn't know that Sherlock had hidden the few observations he had from his most recent actions in the back of his closet – Mrs. Hudson could be particularly nosy, and even she might draw the line at this game he was playing. So instead he simply said, "I told you, it's at the research stage – I've not put anything up yet. It's all in here," he tapped his temple.

That look of suspicion melted into a grin after a few seconds' consideration. "You've not got anything on, have you?" John asked, pleased with himself over having caught Sherlock in a lie. "I'm not Mycroft, you don't have to keep up a front for me."

Sherlock just gave a slight smile and a shrug, twisting to pick up the violin in the case at the side of his chair, needing something to do with his hands now that he'd finished his tea. He began plucking at the strings idly, switching from tune to tune at a whim.

"It's really been that dull since the wedding?" Came John's tentative question. Sherlock didn't bother answering immediately, just continued plucking at his violin. He snuck a glance at John, assessing his reaction.

John actually looked somewhat gratified with the information, which mystified Sherlock a bit; further rumination and a snort from the back of his head supplied him with John's voice (and wasn't that confusing – why did he need a mental version when he had the live one in front of him?) and the answer: _he's just as happy as you are that you two are bored without each other. _

So Sherlock gave a bland, "Something will turn up soon, it always does." Better to let John think what he would for a few weeks more at least.

Thankfully Mrs. Hudson could be heard coming up the stairs again as she burst into the room, "Saved it! He'll need a few minutes to cool; what were we talking about?"

John leaned back a little in his chair. "I was just asking Sherlock what he's been up to these past few weeks; he doesn't seem to have had much work."

It was subtle for John, but still a dig for information from Mrs. Hudson to confirm what Sherlock had told him. The consulting detective was satisfied to see that John had been with him long enough to know better than to trust Sherlock at his word, although it was a tad annoying to have to work at hiding things from him now.

Nevertheless, Mrs. Hudson came through for him, sliding a smile his way, "No, it's been quite quiet 'round here, although Sherlock's finally been out of the flat again these last few weeks – he was in quite a funk for a while!" She shared, always happy to provide John with a sign Sherlock cared about him more than he let on.

John finally seemed convinced at that, as it fit in with his knowledge of Sherlock's tendency to sulk. No mention of the manic behavior typical to Sherlock on a case meant there truly had been little activity at Baker Street, and Sherlock hadn't missed the perfunctory check at the door to see if he had some sort of experiment going in the kitchen. Incidentally, it had been something he'd set up weeks ago to run autonomously for a while, only requiring minimal supervision, but John wouldn't know that without a deeper glance at his notes.

All in all, Sherlock figured he was in the clear.

A beeping noise then indicated John had received a text, which he quickly pulled out to read. "Mary's said the baby is demanding kimchi now, so I've got to track down a Korean place and get home. I'll stop by again soon though, yeah?"

"Mm," Sherlock hummed in agreement, mentally pulling up a map of London. "You'll have to take a cab, but there's a few over on High Holborn."

"Ah, thanks Sherlock," John said, somewhat perplexed as he stood to grab his jacket.

"I'll walk you out, that roast is probably cool enough now," Mrs. Hudson declared, reaching out to pat John on the arm again.

"Alright," he nodded, opening the door for her. "See you soon, Sherlock."

Sherlock just nodded and continued plucking at his strings, thoughts already back on his game, but this time with a smile on his face.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews/views/favs as usual! **

Sorry this isn't much of a chapter, but I kept writing the beginning and the end with no middle to connect them. But I love you guys and didn't want to leave you hanging, so instead y'all get an interlude and a teaser to tide you over until something can be done.

**Teaser:**

_"I have something I'd like you to do for me, Mycroft," he said, eyes steely._

_Mycroft braced his chin on his folded hands. A long, considering look was exchanged then, silence spanning the table between the two brothers. _

_"Are you quite sure? This isn't the same as with John," Mycroft cautioned finally, leaning back in his seat._

_Sherlock didn't even bother asking his brother how he knew what Sherlock wanted; ignorance was a façade at best between them – one had to really work at it to keep something from the other if they were paying attention. He merely gazed steadily back at his brother, and gave one, slow nod._

_"I know, but I think it's time for something new."_

Hope you don't hate me! Stay tuned for the end of the game and a bit of brotherly assistance :D.


	6. Chapter 5: An Exchange of Truths

**A/N: Disclaimer. **

**Chapter 5: An Exchange of Truths**

* * *

After John had left and Mrs. Hudson badgered him into sharing dinner with her, Sherlock returned to his computer to examine the events schedule he'd emailed to himself several weeks ago.

The following week was offering several promising activities: A group of traveling players was set to come next Monday, and Thursday was dedicated to "Meeting the Children." Saturday was to have an outing to the cinema to see something called "Despicable Me;" Sherlock spent a moment perplexed at the idea of a children's film of that title, but disregarded it shortly as unimportant. The first two events were much more ideal, as they offered the chance to explore the staff room without necessitating an extra trip.

_Fewer staff members will probably be present for the play; all the teachers are supposed to be available for Thursday if the potential parents have any questions about a child in particular. _He pressed his fingers together in front of his chin, meditating on the various pros and cons of each option. _There _is _a risk that some of the employees will sneak off to the staff room during the play, but no strategy is perfect. _

_One's infiltration skills always need honing, _he reminded himself. It was a maxim leftover from the days of his (misspent) youth, when he first began attempting minor break-ins of various locales. Sometimes he'd plan the intrusions in detail for days before attempting anything, but other times an arbitrary decision had him climbing through windows or across catwalks mere minutes later.

He never took anything: burglary was never the point. Rather, it was a trial-by-fire method for learning the artistry of infiltration (and he'd certainly been burnt more than once in the early days, prompting some hasty interference on Mycroft's part). A useful side effect had been learning how to spin believable tales of every sort to get himself out of hot water, once he'd realized that a failed job meant his brother breathing down his neck for the next week. The training had sharpened his already lethal ability to think on his feet, leant speed and experience to his lock-picking skills, and taught him the value of a light step. _Quite worth the hassle, although Mycroft didn't see it that way at the time. _

_I knew you must've been a right little bastard when you were small, _John teased, pulling him out of old memories.

Sherlock twitched a smile in agreement, privately pleased Mycroft had been the older of the two brothers and thus the one saddled with all the responsibility.

Thoughts of his youth naturally segued into thoughts of previous cases, especially in light of the fact that he would likely be interacting with players again – they made things both convenient and difficult; on one hand, sneaking in with a group of people everyone knew to be dressed up, behaving as someone else, would make it much simpler to gain entry in the eyes of the home staff. On the other side of things, people who acted for a living had an annoying tendency to recognize other people playing roles.

Sherlock had been called out by an uncooperative witness once, years ago, who told him she didn't believe his grief was real because she'd worn the same face just last week at an audition for the part of Ophelia. And then she'd proceeded to kick up a noisy fuss about it; that was before he'd fallen in with Lestrade, so he'd been hauled off by the police to spend an evening in a rather drafty cell with a warning to stay away from future crime scenes. Since that experience, he'd endeavored to avoid contact with people involved in the theatre industry, with great success.

_Nothing for it then, I knew this would be a problem eventually, _he scowled, annoyed to hear what sounded like John's faint snickering in the background.

_Perhaps, if I arrive a bit late, after the players have already begun to set up, I can plead my way past the secretary and disappear before making it to the auditorium; it's risky, considering it's all one long, straight hallway, but it'll have to do._

* * *

A week passed slowly for Sherlock, spent orchestrating different experiments (mostly just to spite Mrs. Hudson for dragging him to dinner) and exploring newly constructed bits of London to keep his mental map up-to-date. So when mid-morning Monday finally rolled around, Sherlock wasted no time beginning his preparations.

He'd slipped on a pair of brown contacts before leaving, a small adjustment to satisfy his curiosity – was the boy really matching his eye color all this time, or was it a deeper recognition? A special badge was tucked into his trouser pocket, in case he needed to make an identity swap; this one was appropriately constructed with a lion sticker (and hadn't that been a fun trip, picking up animal stickers at the shop…), so he fully expected it to pass scrutiny. A simple jumper with the insignia of the traveling players' company blazoned on the breast pocket was serving as the entirety of his disguise this week, although he'd run frantic hands through his hair to prompt a disheveled look.

Admission to the home went much the way he'd planned, almost systematically: it began with blowing by the desk monitor, spewing breathy exclamations of tardiness and apologies. A short sprint through the left door led to the backstage entrance of the auditorium, where he could already hear the noises of frenzied preparation.

Pausing at the door for half a breath had allowed him time to don the badge and tie the jumper around his shoulders, hiding the insignia. The tasks were so methodical, it was easy to mentally pull up the persona of a curious potential parent dying to learn about the theatre, an unchased dream from childhood.

He'd stepped through the doorway then, adopting a wide-eyed, innocent look as he peered around (and if he modeled it after the one the boy had worn at the zoo, well, it was just evidence the boy was proving himself useful already). The sound of the door opening had drawn the attention of several men and women who looked to be in the midst of hastily constructing their set. One man heavily adorned with AV equipment and a radio quickly made his way over, prompting the rest of the team to get back to work.

Some fast talking and flattery had induced the stagehand to launch into a detailed explanation of his responsibilities, quickly transitioning to a passionate discussion of how electricity had revolutionized theatre – apparently the topic of the man's thesis at university some time ago. Sherlock kept that interested look on his face, asking questions at all the correct times to spur the conversation (though he did store the details about the mechanics of the lighting – it was potentially useful information).

And so elapsed twenty or so minutes, conveniently tucked out of sight of both the staff of the home and the players, who were all being stuffed into costumes and make up in the dressing area to the right. At ten minutes to curtain rise, the stagehand received a terse call from the manager, ordering him to ensure the lights were properly set up.

Sherlock winced in faux sympathy, "Ah, sorry, didn't mean to keep you from your job – I was just so interested, and the wife wanted more time with the little one before it starts, so I thought I'd sneak back here. Thanks for taking the time to tell me about everything."

A subtle glow of pride came over the man's face then, _clearly not used to much attention, but he knows how to bask in it when it's offered. Probably a middle child. Safe guess his family's not much interested in theatre either._

"It's no problem, I'm always happy to talk about my work. But I've really got to go, or Joe'll have my hide," he apologized, with a nervous glance at his phone.

"I'll leave you to it, then," Sherlock smiled, turning to head out the stage door.

"I hope you enjoy the performance!" The man called belatedly, already halfway up the light rigging.

_Couldn't have timed it better had I tried, really,_ Sherlock thought, already removing the name badge and pulling the jumper on again. Just before the performance was the perfect time to slip in to the staff room across the hall, as odds were good the monitors would be occupied wrangling boisterous charges into behaving in the auditorium proper, all the way on the other side of the building.

A few strides had him in front of the door, hallway empty. Two quiet snicks told him he'd successfully picked the lock with the kit he kept on him at all times, lodged just to the left of his belt buckle.

The room itself appeared standard: a set of coat hooks lined the wall to the left of the door, only three jackets haphazardly hanging. Most of the space was occupied by a kitchenette area, in front of which rested a few large, round tables and scattered seating. A door was situated near the back wall, which Sherlock suspected led to a washroom; beside that sat a snack machine, a large set of file cabinets, and a sofa. A single ficus decorated the space, pressed into the corner of the room by the arm of the couch.

_Functional, but not so comfortable that the staff would be induced to spend more time here than with their charges, _Sherlock thought absently.

_I'm guessing you're after the file cabinet? _John added, trying to be helpful.

Sherlock just suppressed a nasty comment on the obvious and made his way over to the metal cabinetry, bringing out the pick set again when he realized it was at least locked. There were five drawers stacked vertically together, the top of which was labeled "New Arrivals," but the bottom four appeared to be divided alphabetically, which gave Sherlock pause, struck by a realization:

_I don't actually know his full name_, he thought, chagrinned, running over every interaction he'd had with the boy.

_Seriously? _John's disbelief was beginning to be a palpable force in his head, compounded as it was with his own self-abnegation. _All that time spent following him around, photographing him, and _nothing_? _

Sherlock could barely wrap his head around it; this was something he'd been planning for weeks, but the details had somehow escaped his attention.

_Careless, brother, _Mycroft chimed in with a vicious edge._ You've relied too much on the ease of technology and the assumption that everything would be simple since this isn't one of your cases. _

Sherlock blocked out the sneering immediately, trying to force his head back towards the problem at hand.

…_you've probably dissected all the causes of his idiosyncrasies, but you don't bloody well know his family name, _John continued to rant, imaginative ire burning.

_It's not as if the monitors ever refer to him as anything other than "Harry," and this is the first opportunity I've had to get at the files,_ he finally snipped back, defensive.

_You could have just asked him! Sometimes, for all that you're the most intelligent person I've ever met, you really lack common sense, Sherlock. _John's voice conveyed disappointment, the one expression Sherlock had tried harder and harder to avoid from him.

_The problem with having mental copies running around your head, _Sherlock realized with a clinical dissociation, _is that you get exposure to all the extremes of their reactions with none of the cues that an eruption is about to happen. _

_And they pick up on all the things you hide from their living counterparts, _a part of him whispered_. _

Sherlock pushed aside his hurt (and really, a mental voice shouldn't have the ability to induce that) and focused. _I'll just have to scan through all the files – surely they've got a picture – or, wait… _he trailed off, giving a considering glance at the "New Arrivals" drawer.

_He did say he'd never been to the zoo before, and I'd be willing to bet the home makes that trip every year with how efficient the system was. Plus, the way he seemed to be scoping everything out when we first met – if he's really not a regular bullying target, which doesn't seem the case, why bother to do that in a place you're familiar with? _

John grumbled in the back of his head. _It's not impressive when you deduce it after screwing up the first time. _

Sherlock ignored him and set to work on the top drawer, slightly relieved that there only appeared to be seven files. Quickly paging through them proved they did indeed contain a small photograph stapled to the top right corner, and, luckily for Sherlock, the boy's file was one of the first few.

The detective spread the file out on top of the cabinet, skimming through the contents. From a glance, he could tell it was thinner than some of the others_, arrived_ _not long ago then, maybe not even two weeks before we began this game. I doubt he's lost family that recently, the grief would be a little more prominent; no, this was another sort of orphaning. _

Sherlock could feel John grimacing a bit at that, but he kept silent.

_Full name: Harry James Potter… how very British. Not shocking, I suppose, he certainly doesn't have the coloring reflective of foreign blood, _Sherlock reflected, thinking back to that pale skin and dark hair.

_Recent transfer from St. George's group home, near Surrey – that explains the need to establish familiarity with new surroundings. He's more nurturing than I originally thought, too, if he's already started taking care of the younger ones in such a short time. _

_Bit odd, isn't it? _John asked. _Surrey's a fair distance from the city, how'd he end up here? _

_Doesn't go into detail, just lists variations on "Slight disturbance to other children, not a great fit, etc." But the psych evals from the councilors are consistent with what I've observed, "quiet, unassuming, needs to be brought out of his shell, high intelligence level demonstrated when prompted, somewhat uncomfortable with compliments." _

_I suppose the home in a suburb like Surrey would be smaller than this facility, so maybe they were just trying to open up some space, _he mused absently, more interested in the reports from the councilors.

_What's the reason listed for his placement in a home in the first place? _John inquired, prodding Sherlock into flipping the page.

_One of the teachers at his primary school noticed something off at the beginning of last term, apparently called it in several times over the year until she was taken seriously. The boy never said anything, but investigation into the home proved verbal and emotional abuse at the hands of the uncle, suspected physical – although the boy's kept silent every time they try to ask him about it. _

_Uncle? What happened to his parents then? _

Sherlock turned to the last page; _deceased, gas explosion, five years. He's been with the mother's sister and her husband and son ever since. The aunt's up for a count of criminal negligence too – she wasn't the perpetrator of the abuse, but she let him sleep in a cupboard and never took action against the husband. _

Sherlock muted the sounds of John's disgust and impotent rage and ruminated over the information he'd been given. It all fit in with the observations he'd made about the boy for the last few weeks – wariness over an uncle would certainly induce the development of sharp observation skills, and neglect could prompt the caretaker tendencies. _He's smart and guarded, but not broken – it'll be a good fit. _

Though he was wrapped up in thoughts of the boy, his ears were ever attuned to his surroundings, and caught the sharp click of heels coming up the hallway. He rapidly replaced the files and shut the cabinet drawer, hoping that whoever came through the door way wouldn't notice the top cabinet was still unlocked. A quick step to the right placed him in front of the snack machine, a much more innocent position, just as the door handle rattled.

"-Hello, what are you doing in here?" A blonde woman asked him from the entryway, suspicion blooming on her face.

"Sorry, sorry, it's just that the woman at the front desk – Sandra? Sara? – mentioned a snack machine was in here; I'm starved, and they don't need me till the second act to help swap costumes. Have you got any change?" he said in a quick rush, a self-deprecating grin plastered on his face.

The suspicion melted out of her eyes, cheeks tilted in a smile, as she took a few steps further into the room. "Her name is Sarah, and I think I can help you out – snuck back here for the same reason myself. I swear, looking after tots works up an appetite!"

Sherlock let loose a laugh as she started rummaging around in her purse, hoping it didn't sound as false to her ears, "That they do – my brother's got a pair himself, right firecrackers. I always demand dinner when I've had them for the day."

"Here you are then," she said with a polite smile. Sherlock passed over a few pound notes in exchange for the coins and turned back to the machine.

"My thanks," he said cheerily, picking out a packet of crisps he vaguely remembered as a brand John favored. He made his way out with a "Ta!" over his shoulder, escaping before she could drag him into any more small talk.

He'd already gotten what he came for.

* * *

The play had just about hit intermission, so Sherlock slipped into the auditorium, back in the guise of a parent, and tried to find an unobtrusive seat away from the door – he didn't want the woman from before to recognize him immediately when she returned.

The set up of the auditorium was very similar to the night of the concert; cafeteria seating had been pushed to one side in favor of rows of foldable chairs in front of the stage. This time, there were few enough adults present that the children were occupying the chairs as well, monitors dotting the line here and there to easily intervene should attention spans wander.

He immediately dismissed the few empty seats in the back row, choosing instead an empty one on the left side four rows up next to a nine- or ten- year-old girl; she barely spared him a glance, attention locked on the scene's climax.

_No sign of the boy yet, though it's really too dark to scan the audience well. _

From the last few minutes of the first act, Sherlock was able to surmise that the players were doing a rendition of Peter Pan; it seemed he'd come in right as Peter was returning the rescued Tiger Lily to her people, prompting a celebration. The children were cheering as the curtain closed, the monitors already standing up to usher their charges towards the washrooms.

Sherlock fiddled with his phone throughout the entirety of intermission, attempting to look engaged enough that he wouldn't be approached by any of the other adults chatting to each other. He kept an eye out for the boy of course, but it was half-hearted, figuring the best chance to find him would be after the play had finished.

The second act began with Peter talking to his Lost Boys and Wendy, hatching some plot to harass Captain Hook; Sherlock absently noted that the group was better than he'd been led to believe from their online reviews, but didn't pay much more attention beyond that, still circling around the information he'd learned that day.

At the conclusion, Sherlock stood immediately and took a few steps to lean against the nearest wall to avoid being stepped over. He pulled out his phone, figuring he could wait until everyone had vacated the auditorium before he went in search of the boy, _probably headed for the playground after this – they look as if they need to burn off some energy. _

It took a bit for the monitors to organize a chorus of "Thank Yous" from their charges, but shortly thereafter a raucous stream of keyed up children already proclaiming themselves the next Peter Pans or Wendy Darlings began winding towards the exit. Nearly thirty seconds later, just when the detective was debating the merits of texting his brother an improvised code to annoy him, Sherlock felt a light tug on his sleeve.

It was quickly released, but the detective followed the small hand up a short distance to the green gaze waiting for him calmly. There was still a bit of flush in the boy's face, likely from the thrill of the play, but a hint of solemnity there too – _wonder where that's from?_

_He found you much quicker this time than at the zoo, _John pointed out, _how'd that happen? _

_We're back on his 'home field,' as it were. Plus I'd imagine he picked up on something from all that free observation at the zoo, some new tell. I'm not exactly actively hiding here, _Sherlock responded.

"You got your eyes to change colors," the boy remarked with a trace of surprise, once he'd gotten a good look at Sherlock's face. "Is this like the moustache?"

Sherlock chuckled a bit at the conclusion and the immediate proof that the recognition _was _deeper than just matching shades. "Quite like it, yes," he confirmed. "This doesn't need any glue though; I'll show you later, if you like."

The boy nodded, mind obviously occupied trying to puzzle out how Sherlock had accomplished such a feat. "Would you like to go outside? I think there's still another half an hour of visiting time," the boy offered, a shy note in his voice.

"Lead on," Sherlock said, gesturing with one sweeping arm. The boy cracked a smile at that, and joined the line of people moving towards the exit.

Sherlock kept his face down and away once they drew closer to the doors – the blonde woman from before was nearby, engaging another monitor in conversation, and he wanted to avoid that encounter if at all possible.

His luck seemed to hold true though, for they shortly spilled out into the hallway and were on their way towards the double glass doors that led to the playground.

Sherlock watched as the boy surveyed the fenced-off area with an all-encompassing glance, eyes cataloguing the hotspots of activity with the efficiency Sherlock had noted before. He seemed satisfied after a few seconds, and began marching off towards the spot of fence where they'd shared their first conversation. Sherlock trailed behind him silently, observing the set of narrow shoulders before him.

They took their time getting settled, Sherlock once again nestled against the bowing fence, the boy just barely perched on the edge of his log. The silence between them was restless, both parties eager and maybe somewhat afraid of the coming conversation – Sherlock could see it in the twitchy motions of the boy's knees, knew it in himself in the slight drumming of his right hand against the log supporting him. He took a breath and flexed his hands, more to regain control than anything else, before launching in.

"Alright, let's hear them then, your three truths," Sherlock said, a degree of hidden trepidation underlying his voice. "And why you know them to be true, as well. You always need a reason," _or it's all too easy for people to doubt you, _came the unbidden whisper.

The boy took a moment to steel himself, gathering courage and formulating his thoughts. "The first thing was something I learned the night of the concert – I came up behind you, remember?" he asked, not really looking for confirmation, just helping set the story.

Sherlock nodded anyways – that had been vivid, turning into that green stare unprepared.

"And that man was being silly, almost crashing into everyone with how he was waving about. I didn't figure it out until we watched the performance, and I wasn't sure until I asked Miss Jane about it later, since he was doing it so wrong, but I think he was pretending to play the violin, right?" The boy rambled, expelling everything in one fast breath.

A pause, and he continued, "And you, you called him that word that got Daniel in time out last week, so I think," he looked up into Sherlock's eyes here, "I think you know something about classical instruments. Like maybe how to play one properly?" he surmised, the end of his statement rising into a question.

_An educated guess at best, _Sherlock mused, but gestured his assent. _I could just as easily have been disgusted with his behavior or noise level as opposed to his playing, but still, the boy's demonstrated some degree of logic and research here. _

"Number two?" Sherlock prompted, when the boy blinked up at him owlishly from behind those thick lenses.

Demonstrating more composure now that he was certain Sherlock wasn't going to reject him outright, the boy took a deep breath and began again.

"Number two – your brother's name is Mycroft," he stated with confidence.

Sherlock's mask of detached interest slipped then, honestly surprised at this revelation. _Mycroft wouldn't have kidnapped him from the home, would he? _He'd never known his brother to have anything to do with children, hadn't expected this level of paranoia –

And as usual, it seemed he'd run away with himself, because the boy continued his explanation with: "You mentioned him that first day, said he didn't have time for you anymore. And then at the zoo, you'd been following us and taking all those pictures, so I was keeping an eye out for you. Everyone ran up to the fence once we got to the lions, but I saw you on the phone and got distracted trying to figure out what you were doing. You said his name then, and yelled at him quite a bit."

_I've no one to blame but myself for this one – I knew the boy would be coming up behind me, and I could've ignored Mycroft's call, _Sherlock thought with quiet bemusement (and a hint of displeasure, tacked on at the end: _Sloppy, even for a game against a child). _

_That pause earlier, _the part of his brain that was always evaluating his surroundings interjected, _just after the first truth, that was the boy reassuring that he wasn't going to get in trouble for eavesdropping – the look of relief is all over his face still, in the relaxed eyebrows. _

_So he's a sneaky thing, _Sherlock noted, _with surprisingly good hearing and an ear for the important parts of a conversation. I wonder if that's always true, or only when he's prepared for it; he already knew to pay attention for our game – will he be as skilled when it's unexpected? _

_Damn good recall, too, for conversation at least, _John broke in.

Sherlock took a moment to be mildly appreciative of this fact – he remembered so much that he often forgot to be impressed when others recalled minutia as well. John sneered at him a bit for that, but left off retorting in the face of the boy's third truth.

"And the last…" here the boy trailed off, giving Sherlock that weighty, assessing gaze he favored. He seemed to come to a decision fairly quickly this time, though when he persisted, it was with gravity in his words.

"The last truth is that you're lonely, sir," he announced with a shrug, "why else would you play this game with me?"

It was all Sherlock could do to meet those eyes, thoughts somewhat stunned into silence. The detective was taken aback, once again faced with something unexpected from the boy in front of him: this truth was so different from the previous two, but so much more right in a way.

Some distracted part of his brain was revising his earlier estimate – _not a lucky guess then, but actual _perception, _that's rare. _This was insight into the human heart, something he'd only recently come to understand courtesy of John and the others; something this child had apparently noticed since the very beginning of their acquaintance.

_Yes, _John whispered in quiet approval. _This one will do. _

"Er…" the boy prompted when the silence had apparently lingered for too long, "How did I do?"

"Right," Sherlock said at last. "On all counts."

"So, the prize; can I ask for something, sir?" He asked, eyes eager.

John snorted, _that's children for you – they'll drop something profound, from the mouth of babes and all that, then turn right around and get distracted with a toy or sweet. _

Sherlock latched onto this request like a lifeline for his floundering thoughts, trying to reorient himself. _A request is much better, _he chided in John's direction, _it's something he actually wants – insight into a person's desire is no small thing. Besides, can't you see how wary he is? He's expecting to be denied. _

"A wish? What did you have in mind?"

_Careful, Sherlock, _John winced. _Don't promise him anything, he might want something impossible – children do that. _

"Can you tell me your real name? Only, this has been the first game I played with anyone else that I liked, and I don't want to keep calling you the chameleon man in my head," he blushed.

Sherlock's eyebrow rose of its own accord. "Chameleon?" he asked. Inwardly, he shot a smug look at John. _See? Mine asks the important questions. _

The blush only darkened, eyes glancing down and away. "We saw them at the zoo – they change colors like you do, so it fit," he said, somewhat apologetically.

Sherlock bit off a bit of a chuckle then, an unmistakable smile coming to his lips.

"I've been called many things, but I suppose that's rather apt considering the circumstances.

"You may call me Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective."

* * *

**A/N: Ahhhhh. **

So last chapter was officially one of many milestones - this story hit over 20,000 words, 100 reviews, 17,000 views, 300 favs and 500 alerts. That makes y'all crazy and amazing and everything in between. That's seriously so much more love than I was ever expecting this thing to get, you have no idea how epic you all are. It also makes me feel kind of bad - this chapter is not my favorite, or at least not the beginning of it [more of that racing to get to point D and suddenly finding points E, F and G all hopping the line, the assholes], and I'd wanted to give you something awesome in return :/.

So the teaser from before got pushed back to next chapter, apologies all around for anyone wanting some Mycroft involvement.

Not sure when the next chapter will be out :(. Y'all are the best and I love reading your responses, so feel free to drop a line hounding me for more - maybe it'll be what's needed to kickstart some juju XD.

Love,  
Kris


	7. Chapter 6: Familial Contemplations

**A/N: Disclaimer.**

**Chapter 6: Familial Contemplations**

* * *

_Sherlock bit off a bit of a chuckle then, an unmistakable smile coming to his lips. _

"_I've been called many things, but I suppose that's rather apt considering the circumstances. _

"_You may call me Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective." _

If Sherlock had been waiting for some sort of dramatic response from the boy at the revelation of his name, he would have been disappointed – all that crossed his face was a hint of confusion over the words 'consulting detective.'

_Really, a window is less transparent; he's worse than John. I'll have to teach him how to form a closed expression before anything else. _

"You…detect things? Like how things happen?" the boy asked slowly, piecing together a thought. Despite finally receiving the name he'd asked for, he was clearly more interested in the second part of Sherlock's sentence. _How intriguing; a fan of mysteries, perhaps? Though that's not exactly the reaction I'd expect… _

A cloud parted then, the weak afternoon sunlight breaking through to glint off of the boy's ill-fitting glasses. The glare masked the boy's eyes, abruptly shaking Sherlock from train of thought. A shift in the prismatic reflections on the dirt in front of them told Sherlock he'd been silent too long – the boy was fidgeting, trying to figure out what had grasped Sherlock's attention.

The last few thoughts still lingering on his mind like an unexpected flavor, Sherlock finally nodded. "Usually the "whys" as well. Although," he felt compelled to add, "I admit they interest me little."

The boy cocked his head to the side, seeming to look up at Sherlock in a new light. The palpable air of determination emanating from him puzzled the detective. _And was that a flash of apprehension? _

Sudden yells from across the playground had Sherlock's head twisting round before he'd realized, breaking the thoughtful atmosphere. A quick glimpse informed him it was only a small squabble, but by the time he'd turned back to his companion, the moment had been lost.

Sherlock found himself a bit disappointed; _he looked to be gathering himself for something. I should've liked to know what it was. _

The small form in front of him (_Harry, you've got to start calling him Harry, _John nudged) had followed his gaze, studying the three boys arguing across the way. As the voices started to rise, he started unconsciously rocking back and forth, chewing on his bottom lip absently.

_A comforting motion, I believe. He doesn't even know he's doing it, _Sherlock thought distantly. The detective contemplated in silence for a moment or two more, playing out scenarios in his head.

_Yes. _

He stood up abruptly, jarring his seatmate. "I've got to go," he said, glancing down at the boy (_Harry!). _

The child floundered for a moment, clearly at a loss, before finally bursting out with, "Will I see you again?" The slight gleam of desperation had entered those eyes, before a (failed) attempt at indifference scabbed over.

Sherlock favored him with what John might have called a fond look. "I have a feeling I'll be seeing you sooner than you'd think," A parting wink for good measure, and then he strode off.

It was time to go visit his brother.

* * *

Sherlock's arrival at his brother's manor was heralded by little more than a quick text message rapidly sent off from the backseat of a cab:

_I'm coming over._

_- SH_

Despite the short notice, he was greeted at the door by the austere butler his brother had engaged for the last decade or so with, "Mr. Holmes, you've been expected."

A solemn man approaching his mid-sixties, Gerald Rathbun gave new definition to the word "expressionless." _Perhaps the boy could take lessons from him, _Sherlock thought with a wry smile, _though it might be overkill._

Sherlock's opinion on the man oscillated on any given day: he was employed by Mycroft, which meant he was eminently competent in a wide variety of skills, a refreshing change from the day-to-day people Sherlock often found himself surrounded by.

On the other hand, he was employed by Mycroft: Sherlock had felt obligated to dislike him on principle in his younger, (more) contrary years. Gerald held propriety in the highest regard, and passed judgment and disapproval out like party favors with but the barest lift of an eyebrow. Sherlock had derived great pleasure in picking at the man when he first came to work for Mycroft, which Gerald had returned with the driest of humor.

Sherlock's two year absence had left them at somewhat of an impasse; try as he might to hide it, Sherlock's observant nature had caught the slight relaxation in posture, the quiet exhale of relief, and the careful trace of eyes seeking potential injuries. _All additions that can be dated back to my return from Serbia_. It had the detective rather perplexed for a response, so he settled for his usual method of dealing with unexpected demonstrations of emotions and bulldozed right through it.

He ignored Gerald's belated attempt to take his coat – _why he still tries for it is beyond me, I never accept – _and made for the study, Mycroft's habitual haunt of choice at this hour. Gerald trailed after him, that familiar cloud of displeasure finally beginning to radiate at Sherlock's continued flouting of societal niceties.

Sometimes Sherlock wondered if that was entirely why Mycroft kept Gerald around – a blistering reminder of all that is and is not socially acceptable; _god forbid Mycroft should slip and behave outside the norm_. He rolled his eyes at that, before pushing through the large, mahogany door that led to the study.

Mycroft was seated at his desk, a few files stacked uniformly in front of him. He'd glanced up at the sound of the door opening, eyes flitting from his brother to the butler behind him.

"You're dismissed, Gerald. I think I can take it from here," Mycroft sighed, the echo of annoyance tingeing his voice. He leaned back into his chair, closing the file in front of him with a heavy hand.

"Some refreshments, sir?" Gerald pressed, snapping into his preferred posture. "Tea?" A wary eye at Sherlock. "…Brandy, perhaps?"

Mycroft spared a tired smile, "Not today, I think."

The seated man turned to look at Sherlock then, gaze sweeping, assessing, deducing. Sherlock matched him look for look, but held his tongue.

_We're all impressed with your restraint, Sherlock, _John remarked dryly.

"Why don't you sit, brother mine?" Mycroft gestured to one of the leather chairs in front of him.

Sherlock pondered making a point of remaining standing, but a snort from behind had him sinking into his seat with an easy grace. He was tempted to curl up and yawn at the man like an overgrown cat to prove only he controlled his actions, but the gravity of his errand put a stop to those behaviors.

Mycroft twitched his lips; it was no secret he'd long been amused by the enmity between his brother and his butler, but Sherlock had ensured any snide comments on the matter were repaid with interest – the first and only remark had inspired Sherlock to devote three whole days to reorganizing Mycroft's entire house (files, books, kitchen ingredients…the list went on) the next time he was called out of town.

"That will be all Gerald, thank you," Mycroft repeated, nodding towards the door.

"Yes, do go on, Gerald, we've things to discuss," Sherlock couldn't help but drawl, ostensibly examining the linen of his trousers for lint. A sigh blew through the back of his mind, but he ignored it with the ease of long practice in favor of relishing in the tangible annoyance seething behind him as Gerald exited at last.

The click of the doorjamb signaled a change in atmosphere almost like the flip of a switch. Backs straightened, facial expressions blanked out, and gazes locked on both sides. Sherlock took a moment to cross his legs, hands clasped in front of him, before presenting his case.

"I have something I'd like you to do for me, Mycroft," he said, eyes steely.

Mycroft braced his chin on his folded hands. A long, considering look was exchanged then, silence spanning the table between the two brothers.

"Are you quite sure? This isn't the same as with John," Mycroft cautioned finally, leaning back in his seat.

Sherlock didn't even bother asking his brother how he knew what Sherlock wanted; ignorance was a façade at best between them – one had to really work at it to keep something from the other if they were paying attention. He merely gazed steadily back at his brother, and gave one, slow nod.

"I know, but I think it's time for something new."

"Are you certain I couldn't offer you someone a little more…self-sufficient? As you so kindly pointed out," here his face pinched together in a simpering smile, referencing their phone call from last week, "I'm simply bursting with new recruits that could do with your particular brand of polishing."

"Boring," Sherlock shot down immediately. "Like I told you before, I'm not on hand to make things convenient for you," he intoned, biting into that last "t."

Eyebrows rose. "Is that not exactly the purpose I'm serving for you, now?"

"I approached you because I'd like to do this quickly, within the legal channels. I'm not opposed to other methods." A beat of silence. "You are not my only option, merely the one I contacted first, Mycroft." Sherlock paused to draw breath here, fierce expression relaxing. "Consider it a favor between brothers."

The eyebrows stayed high, indicating the perceived hypocrisy of that statement.

Sherlock scoffed and lost his crisp posture, irritated that his brother was being so intractable. "I'm asking for five minutes of your time and a signature at best, Mycroft. You want months of mental agony from me."

Mycroft's face twisted into a bit of a grimace, conceding the point. "I suppose it would be bad form for your brother to drive you to murder. But I am not sure that this course of action is wise, brother mine."

"Probably not," Sherlock agreed wryly, "but it's what I've decided to do. Baker Street could do with a fresh breeze blowing through." _As could I, for that matter. It's entirely too quiet without someone else puttering about. _

The examining eyes were back, lips pressed against his laced index fingers. Despite the silence between them, Sherlock knew his brother was busy constructing various scenarios and forming contingency upon contingency.

"Very well," Mycroft agreed finally, lifting his chin off his thumbs. "I'll procure the paperwork and have it sent to Baker Street by this evening."

Sherlock suppressed a triumphant smirk. Having to go to his brother had been annoying, but really the most expedient option; it was foolish to hope he could hide the boy from Mycroft forever. _If he's going to be involved, it might as well be from the foundation. _

"My thanks," Sherlock said as he stood, already itching to get back to Baker Street (_so much to do, must notify Mrs. Hudson, clean up a bit, acquire a beginner's chemistry set, so much, so much!)_. It was as much of an acknowledgement as Mycroft was going to get, but thankfully the Holmes brothers had been reading between the lines their entire lives; the gratitude did not go unnoticed.

"And Sherlock," Mycroft's voice cut through the storm of planning, "I expect to meet him properly, sooner rather than later. He's to be my nephew, after all."

* * *

"_He's to be my nephew, after all."_

The words echoed in Sherlock's head for the entire duration of the car ride back to 221B, chasing him up the stairs and into his own leather chair in a daze.

For a moment he wanted to curse his brother, for giving those words that particularly ringing inflection – _he did it on purpose, the bastard. _

_Of course he did it on purpose, Mycroft does _everything_ on purpose, _his mind asserted, strained with just a hint of what might have been hysteria.

_You understood before, in an abstract way, _he told himself, chastising. _Why is it different now? _

_Because the label "nephew" associated with my brother implies a person also related to me…a _son_. _The immediate disconnect that thought brought on halted all layers of thinking; it was all Sherlock could do to gaze unblinking at the kitchen.

Mental-John's wince cut through everything from its previous silence. _I never thought I'd have to say this Sherlock, but I can't picture you as a father. _

Sherlock absently thought he should be feeling vaguely offended at that – he hadn't yet met a challenge he couldn't conquer, thank you very much – but his wellspring of reactions seemed to have dried up at this point.

John's voice continued, quietly. _Maybe you can't be a father, but what about a guardian? _

It was just an exchange of terms, but therein lay Sherlock's redemption. _Guardian, _he tasted slowly, as if testing for cracks. _That could do. Like a mentor, but with a few more responsibilities. And those won't even matter in the long run – I've picked a good one, _he reassured himself_. _

Like a wilted flower receiving water after a period of drought, Sherlock began coming back to life. His background observation kicked on again, absently noting that Mrs. Hudson had cleaned the flat while he was away. He could smell the scent of chicken wafting up the stairs, spiced heavily with lemon; _must be near six-thirty then, _he thought with surprise. It had barely been half-four when he arrived at Mycroft's.

_I still have to let Mrs. Hudson know someone's going to need John's room. After that the paperwork should've arrived and I can get everything signed. _These were safe topics to think on, easy enough to process.

While Sherlock had never been one to second-guess himself (enough people did that for him, why add one more to the pile?), it was only intelligent practice to plan everything out. This…_plot _of his had bypassed the planning stage weeks ago, though; there was little more to do now than finalize things.

_And avoid any more hysterical fits, _John added sagely.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock called as he trotted down the stairs. "I've found someone to let John's room!"

* * *

He took a few more hours to meditate on this whole…_guardian_ notion in the morning. It basically boiled down to: he wanted a companion, he wanted _this _companion – he just had to keep the boy from dying of starvation or stupidity before he reached eighteen. The one he'd picked was smart, had all that ingrained wariness built in, so the latter was less likely. As for the starvation…well, that was why they had Mrs. Hudson.

Feeling much more at peace with the entire decision, the rest of Tuesday was devoted to acquiring the necessities; while he had intended to do so anyways, it had the added bonus of removing Sherlock from the presence of an entirely too bubbly Mrs. Hudson. She had barged in with his tea at a rather ungodly hour that morning, babbling all the while – he'd tuned out most of her exclamations, and thankfully she departed up the stairs shortly thereafter with a bucket of cleaning supplies. Pervasive humming and chortling had interrupted his thoughts for the rest of the morning.

Wednesday could not come soon enough.

* * *

**A/N: Per usual, y'all are incredible. **

I think we hit 47 reviews for last chapter alone [whaaaaat]. Mind blown. Also, apologies for the delay and length of this chapter; cover letters suck out my soul, and this sort of wrote itself to a conclusion here. I wanted to throw in more, but the next bit is kind of a big scene and would have taken more time. I love you guys too much to do that, and I'm an impatient human.

A very kind reviewer pointed out I'm shamelessly butchering the British education system for my own purposes; it's funny, the little things you don't expect to be that different, isn't it? Apologies all around for that one, it was unintentional :).

Guys, the temptation to throw in, "What is necessary is never unwise," after Mycroft's comment was SO hard to resist. Plausible excuses for Sherlock to be exposed to pop culture cannot come soon enough. (Someday, there should be a crack!fic, in which Sherlock begins to use movie wisdom as credos to live his life [possibly due to blunt force trauma to his head, because let's be real, concussed!Sherlock could be the most entertaining Sherlock]. I'm not funny, so someone should make this happen.)

I might be cross-posting this to my AO3 account, please don't worry about plagiarism. I just hate the little (0) next to the stories link since I've finally written something after lurking for so long XD.

**Anonymous reviewers, you also make my day even though I can't say thank you directly. Know that it's appreciated! **

**Best,  
Kris **


	8. Chapter 7: Wading through Procedure

**A/N: Disclaimer. **

**Chapter 7: Wading through Procedure**

* * *

Wednesday morning at precisely half-ten, Sherlock Holmes pushed through the double doors of the St. James Group Home. He strode right up to the service desk with his usual glide, where Sarah blinked up at him in surprise.

The consulting detective had wanted this to be a day in which all pretenses were dropped, and wore a face that matched accordingly: his professional demeanor, blank but for the barest spark of excitement. Between the sheer cheekbones, the piercing eyes and the smart cut of his jacket, he was unknowingly giving off the perception of a man with sharp edges. Sarah had begun fidgeting in discomfort the moment he'd walked in the door.

"I'd like to adopt a child," he announced with little fanfare, gloved hands coming to rest against the files he had tucked in the crook of his arm.

The woman stared, bewildered. "What? Oh! Um, let me just –" she stammered, eyes passing over him before flitting to her desk. She lit up after a second though, beginning to rummage through a drawer before surfacing with some papers. _Clearly she draws comfort from the familiar arms of bureaucracy and procedure…how dull. _

"– if you could please fill out these forms –"

"No," Sherlock replied, not in the mood to be kind and doddle. "That won't be necessary, I've everything right here."

The older woman pursed her lips at the cold response, and Sherlock wondered if he should have bothered with the niceties after all. "I see. I'll just take a look at those, then," she said, eyes already on the proffered pages. A practiced hand reached out to withdraw a pair of spectacles from the top drawer even as she pulled the files closer.

Perusal of the documents apparently required several long, drawn out minutes. _She must have had enough time to read through them three times over by now, _Sherlock thought exasperatedly, fighting the urge to browbeat her into cooperation.

Finally, _finally, _she looked up at him with wide eyes. "But these already have a child listed? I don't understand, we've no record of you visiting any of our children, Mr. Holmes. Do you have a prior claim on Harry from before he was placed in the system?"

"No, nothing like that," he negated, following the vague backstory Mycroft had provided him. _Perhaps not done with every pretense after all. _"I visited him a time or two at the home in Surrey. I've been away on business for a bit, but when I returned to town I found out he'd moved to this location."

"Yes, he's been here for quite some time now." There was a slight relaxing in her posture after his spiel, a lowering of her shoulders. _It makes her seem smaller, _Sherlock thought, _like a bird that's finished puffing up his plumage._

_I suppose she was distressed at the idea that someone would want to adopt a child he'd never met…_Sherlock debated very briefly about bringing up the sob-story face he used on witnesses, raving about some 'instant connection' with the boy when he first met him to play on her heart-strings, but discarded the idea in almost the next breath. While it might deliver Sherlock more quickly to the boy's side, it also had the potential to backfire. Witnesses could be nuisances, but this woman likely had the power to deny him something he was coming to want very badly.

Feeling a little more comfortable and back on familiar ground, she gifted him with a soft smile and a suggestion: "Would you like to arrange an interview with Harry today? I'm sure you have quite a few things to catch up on if you've been on business for long."

Sherlock clenched his hand into a fist in his pocket in an effort to halt the words itching to come out of his mouth: _I don't want an interview, you twit, I explained my purpose here very clearly upon entry. I am here to adopt a child, I've even told you which one I want and provided all of your silly paperwork, now go make it happen! _

"An interview would be ideal, thank you," he gritted out. Though gracious was not a face he wore often (and made incredibly difficult by clenched teeth), it suited the situation and seemed to satisfy the woman. Sarah gave a pleased nod, all smiles again with the belief that she had delayed a hasty decision.

"One moment please," she said primly, a hand already on the phone. She spoke into it for a few moments, arranging for someone named 'Mrs. Roberts' to bring Harry to the staff room for an adoption interview. Sherlock just kept silent and tried to refrain from fidgeting.

"Well, I suppose you don't really need one of these, as you've already met with Harry before, but just in case," she broke off, typing something on her computer.

Sherlock had an idea as to what she was alluding to, but it was the whirr of a printer from behind the desk that confirmed his suspicion. Sarah twisted in her chair, quickly gathering materials from around her workspace, before turning back to present him with his very own nametag, the proper name listed at last._ A monkey sticker as well…_It immediately brought to mind the trip to the zoo, earning a wry smile from the detective. A quick, searching glance at the receptionist confirmed she hadn't been insinuating anything – while perhaps paranoid, it had become habitual for Sherlock to check more closely on any subtle, suspicious actions after _Jim_ from _IT_ had slipped by him.

"You should look into changing your ink cartridge soon," he murmured, noting the slightly faded type of his name.

A bland noise of agreement, and then, "If you'll just follow me, I'll take you back to the staff room for your little chat with Harry."

* * *

The staff room was much the same as it had been two days ago, although Sherlock noted the snack machine had yet to be restocked. A young woman in her mid twenties was occupying a table nearest to the kitchen. The papers sprawled around her and red pen in her hand would have told Sherlock she was a teacher at the home, even if he had missed the more subtle signs: _chalk in her hair, from brushing back her bangs, hand puppets stuffed into the pockets of her dress, a silver apple necklace – someone enjoys clichés, although, _he conceded,_ perhaps it was a gift_.

Sherlock took a seat at a table on the opposite side of the room, closer to the couch and vending machine. He watched as Sarah wandered over to speak with the teacher, ostensibly inquiring after some of her students. Their voices dropped low for a moment, and Sherlock caught sight of a darted glance in his direction from the teacher. _Money says Sarah's asked her to keep an eye on me during this little 'interview' then. Good practice, although not exactly high security here…she could do very little to stop me were I an actual kidnapper. _

The two women chatted for another minute or so before Sarah traipsed back over to his side of the room; Sherlock was at a loss for why given the lack of conversation, until the door finally opened and a third woman entered, leading the boy.

Harry surveyed the room with a pinched, worrying expression _(likely thinks he's in some sort of trouble)_ before catching sight of Sherlock. His face turned almost hungry then, disbelief prominent as his eyes darted around a second time, reassessing his initial thoughts of what was happening. Or so Sherlock hoped, anyways. _He could be looking for who's the authority in the room, or simply confused. _

But Sherlock didn't miss the quick look at his nametag as the boy drew closer, and suppressed the urge to crow in delight at the intelligent precaution. _He doesn't want to blow my cover; how prudent, _Sherlock thought, pleased.

"Mr. Holmes!" the boy exclaimed, happiness suffusing the words.

A noise of confirmation from Sarah, who Sherlock had quite forgotten when the boy walked in the door, finally informed the detective of her reasoning for returning to his side: _She wanted a look at the boy's face to ensure he knew who I was; the door swings open to the right – her view would have been blocked had she stayed near the teacher. _

"Harry, Mr. Holmes here has asked to set up an adoption talk with you," Sarah said kindly, with soft, fond eyes. Sherlock was treated to the sight of blatant surprise on the boy's part, and nodded in agreement when searching green found his own content grey.

"Mrs. Stewart will be just over there for your chat, so you let her know if you need anything, and we'll leave you to it," Sarah finished, one last pause to let Harry speak up if he was uncomfortable with anything. When the moment passed, she collected the second teacher and made her way out the door, returning to her post.

Pen scratches filled the air for a while. Sherlock watched as the boy relaxed enough to straighten up and take a few uncertain steps closer.

"You…you really want to adopt me?" He asked finally in a quiet tone, either not eager to have his voice carry or simply not capable of more volume at the moment.

Either way, Sherlock matched his low voice, his own baritone smoothly sliding into the register. "I do," he confirmed gently.

"But _why_?" The boy demanded helplessly, hands flying up to tug at his hair. He'd come close enough that Sherlock chose to make a slight gesture to the chair next to him before answering. The boy clambered up without hesitance, which pleased Sherlock to no end: _already comfortable following my nonverbal suggestions; that implies he's open to learning and guidance from me. Perfect. _

"I asked you when we first met to play a game with me; you might remember that I mentioned I'd been in that disguise for some time," Sherlock began; he'd considered carefully how he wanted to explain this the day before. While many children would be too excited at the prospect of gaining a home to question the reasons much, he knew Harry was different – he was too wary of his surroundings, too careful around adults, too self-contained to react differently.

"The funny moustache, yes, I remember," the boy piped up. He was leaning forward on the edge of his seat now, small legs swinging slightly the way children tended to do in seats too large for them.

"The reason I was in that disguise, going around to children's homes, was that I was looking for a special child, one who possessed what I consider to be the most important skill," Sherlock revealed. "The ability to observe."

A beat for thought. "You want to adopt me because I told you your moustache looked funny?" Harry asked, face screwed up in a questionable manner, having translated Sherlock's words for himself. "But I bet lots of kids saw that, they just didn't say anything."

"Perhaps," Sherlock conceded. "But the nerve to speak up is also a fine quality; some have it in excess and overstep their bounds, but you always think before you speak, don't you?"

Harry shrugged then, looking away. _I've touched on a remnant of his past, I suspect. _

"It's important," was all the boy said, an echo of the answer he'd first provided when Sherlock had questioned his surveillance of the playground at their initial meeting.

The consulting detective was not good with feelings; this was a certifiable fact anyone who had met him could and would confirm. But he had known going into this interview that he was going to need to be a little more open and find the words to convey all of the things he barely understood. _Meet the boy halfway, _John prompted.

"That it is," Sherlock nodded in agreement. "You also told me that I'm lonely, which is quite an accurate assessment, I assure you. I used to function best alone," he gave a wry smile, "or at least I thought I did. But then I met someone who showed me in no uncertain terms that that is simply not the case." A quick glance showed the boy was all ears, gaze locked on his once again, so Sherlock continued. _You've always been my saving grace, John. Perhaps that will carry over here as well. _

"My best friend," he still relished in the ability to claim a friend at all, "Dr. John Watson." He paused, beginning again with a soft look. "He's gotten married now, so I decided to try something new as well. I've been searching for a companion, someone I can teach all of my skills to; you have the potential, Harry," he acknowledged, using the boy's name for the first time aloud. "Our game showed that: you're quite intelligent, self-composed, and very observant."

A breath. "Do you think you might be interested?"

The boy was looking up at him with eyes so wide they seemed to take up half his face. "I, I want to, but…" Harry trailed off, casting a distressed glance towards the teacher in the corner before looking back at Sherlock. He leaned in closer, as if conveying a secret. "Sometimes," the boy licked his lips, voice suddenly raspy, "sometimes I do weird things."

It had all the air of a confession, which puzzled Sherlock; this was not a turn he had expected this conversation to take. He searched for a safe response, before settling for a truth. _He'll find out eventually anyways. _

"John tells me I do as well," the detective shared. When it became apparent the boy was still at a loss for what to say next, he continued, "I play the violin at odd hours, sometimes I don't talk for days at a time, and I can enumerate the differences between two hundred and forty-three types of tobacco ash, to name a few of my quirks."

The comments had drawn a weak smile from the boy, but he was still looking uncertainly towards the teacher. "The point is, Harry, that I'm not an easy person to live with; I'm a man of many flaws, but if you can accept those, I believe I can handle anything from your end of things."

He cleared his throat then, suddenly considering another reason the boy might be lacking words. "That being said, if you do not want to leave your life here, I would understand–"

"No! That's not it, not it at all," Harry rushed to answer him, leaning forward again to snatch Sherlock's sleeve from where it rested on the table. Sherlock was surprised by the action, and absently caught sight of Mrs. Stewart looking over with concern. But his attention was all on the boy, whose eyes were swelling with something delicate. _That's hope, _John provided.

"I've not been responsible for another person, before. I might be terrible at it," Sherlock warned, but the serious tone he'd meant to convey was lost somewhere along the way. He swallowed. "But I'll try, if you'll have me."

The boy considered for a half second, losing that desperate, scared look, before responding frankly, "I've never really had a responsible adult before the home, so I don't see why I need one now."

That startled a laugh out of the detective. _So mercurial_, he thought. "Are you game to give it a go, then?"

"Yes," the boy said quietly. A little firmer then: "Yes."

Sherlock gave a pleased nod, abruptly standing to stride over to the teacher in the corner. "Who do I speak to about adopting Harry?"

* * *

Mrs. Stewart had been somewhat dumbfounded, but had called someone, so Sherlock returned to the boy and they discussed small things for a while, both in need of some levity. Sherlock learned that Harry's favorite color was red, that he liked the monkey bars because he enjoyed heights, and that he found ninjas intriguing because they could pass anywhere unseen. In turn, Sherlock had shared that his favorite color was blue, because many of its pigments were produced by iron complex cyanide reactions, some of the first chemical experiments he had conducted, that he was a master of hide-and-seek, and that he was quite fond of pirates.

Harry had just begun to clumsily repeat a few of the Arabic words he had picked up from one of the other children in the home when a female voice interrupted them from the door.

"Mr. Holmes, if I could have a moment of your time?" It was phrased like a request, but Sherlock was certainly familiar with the insistent tone that labeled it a demand.

Sherlock suspected this was the woman the teacher had called; the no-nonsense voice suggested he might finally be getting somewhere in this process (part of him had feared Mrs. Stewart had simply phoned Sarah in an attempt to delay him). He tossed a nod at Harry, who was looking uncertain again, and rose silently.

Mrs. Stewart cleared her throat, drawing up a warm voice. "Harry, dear, why don't you come help me with some marking? I need someone to put the 'great job' stickers on these papers."

Sherlock heard the boy cross the room to sit at the test-ridden table before the staff door closed behind him, leaving him face to face with a sharply dressed figure; _she's got the air of a businesswoman or lawyer of some sort, that shark-like quality. Balance of probability says lawyer, considering her affiliation with the home. _

The woman was on the younger side of thirty, clearly fierce in demeanor; she still had the fire in her that came from working with injustice, one that hadn't been dulled by facing too many broken children.

"The St. James Group Home has a policy of conducting extensive interviews with all of its potential parents," she said with a thin smile. "I have quite a few questions for you."

Sherlock shot his own razor-edged smile at her in response. "Lead on."

* * *

The interviewer, a woman named Ms. Tate, had led him to one of the unused classrooms down the hall before launching into what would have surely been a daunting and exhaustive interrogation for anyone else.

(You've listed your occupation as a 'consulting detective;' is this a paid position? Do you feel you have adequate time to care for a child? What if anything should happen to you in the line of duty, have you thought to make preparations for Harry in that event?)

As it was, Sherlock answered to the best of his ability, if somewhat curtly. He provided five character references promptly upon request (when and how Mycroft had finagled those, he did not even begin to speculate) and maintained his composure throughout by silently deducing as much as he could of the woman's past, studying her as much as she was studying him.

_(No nail polish, pantsuit, high heels, but not stilettos, hair in a severe bun – has a history of not being taken seriously as a woman in her field, then. Probably tried for tax law or corporate before this. But the noodle necklace – obviously a gift from one of the residents – and her current occupation suggest a weakness for children…)_

It was dull, but at least he hadn't descended into audible mocking yet. And so it went, for forty-five minutes, until she was moderately satisfied (or had at least stopped eyeing him as the enemy). Finally, she explained that the home reserved the right to conduct another interview(s) at any point in the adoption process, and led him back to the staff room.

* * *

They returned to find the two remaining occupants in much the same position as before, although Harry had taken up coloring on some spare bit of paper while the teacher was grading yet another set of spelling tests. Both looked up at the sound of the door opening; the teacher quickly returned to her task, but Harry tossed a questioning look at Sherlock.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched upwards in the smallest hint of a smile, but it was enough to have the boy untucking his legs in a scramble to hop off the chair. He scampered over to them quickly, bringing an arm up to hastily smooth down his hair.

Ms. Tate smiled down at the boy. "Let's take a seat, shall we?" she prompted, heading for the round table Sherlock and Harry had occupied earlier, probably in an attempt to maintain the illusion of privacy from the teacher.

"Harry, Mr. Holmes, I'd like to discuss with you the next steps in the adoption process," she said, making eye contact with each of them in turn. Sherlock noticed that Harry earned an extra smile; _she's making it very clear who the priority is in this situation,_ he thought with some satisfaction_. As it should be._

"There are three stages to this," she continued. "In stage one, one of our social workers will be assigned to your case, and will visit Harry at," she paused to look down at her notes," 221B Baker Street several times over the next two to three months. These visits will be both planned and unplanned, to make sure we are getting the full picture."

The boy looked a bit alarmed for a moment, so she reached over to pat his hand. "We just want to make sure you're happy, Harry.

"Stage two will consist of monthly visits petering out into bimonthly visits at your case worker's discretion," she continued. But she'd turned her attention back to Sherlock, and missed the flash of confusion on the boy's face at her word choice.

Sherlock wanted there to be no misunderstandings between them over this process, so he broke in to explain: "She means that, once the case worker decides it's a beneficial – good – situation for both of us, her check-ins will decrease from once a month to once every two months."

Ms. Tate granted him a surprised, but pleased expression. "After she's satisfied, you'll go to stage three, where you might only receive a visit or two a year."

"If things don't," throwing a considering glance at Harry, she reconsidered her next few words, "if things don't work out, for either of you, or if you wish to make use of some of the counseling services available through the home, here are copies of our numbers for both of you." She handed them each a small business card with multiple numbers listed; Sherlock watched as Harry took his, biting his lip and peeking hastily in the detective's direction. The detective gave him a small nod, not entirely certain what he was reassuring the boy over, before tucking his own card away with all the rest of the papers.

"Would you like to go home with Mr. Holmes today, Harry, or would you like to wait until tomorrow?" Ms. Tate asked kindly.

Harry deliberated for a moment, before turning to look at Sherlock. "Will I be able to come visit my friends again soon?"

"No reason we couldn't," Sherlock replied, a bit surprised the boy was close enough to anyone he wanted to visit – every time Sherlock had come upon him, the boy had held himself rather separate from the others. But then, the image of a younger boy being tugged along behind Harry at the zoo came to mind, and things snapped into place. "I won't have any cases on for a while," he assured.

"Then I'll go today, if Miss Jane promises to tuck in Joshua tonight," he decided, with an eye on the teacher in the corner, who had been trying (but failing) to hide her eavesdropping.

"I'll be sure to tell her," Mrs. Stewart agreed hastily.

"Excellent," Ms. Tate smiled. "I'll just call down your social worker, Lacey Williams. She'll drive you both back to– "

"Baker Street," Sherlock provided, when it was clear the woman needed prompting.

"Yes, Baker Street, to make certain it's a suitable environment. Harry, why don't you run upstairs to collect your things? You didn't drive, did you, Mr. Holmes?"

"No, I prefer cabs," Sherlock stated, vaguely annoyed at the intrusion into his space, even if it had been somewhat expected.

* * *

The three separated at the lobby, Harry flitting up the stairs and Ms. Tate to call down the case worker, leaving Sherlock to linger on one of the armchairs against the wall in an effort to avoid being drawn into conversation with the receptionist again.

A clatter from the top of the stairs a few minutes later drew Sherlock's attention. One lone, battered suitcase was clutched in small hands; it looked disproportionately large next to the boy and it hit Sherlock then that here, what he was looking at, was an entire world for this particular child.

Sherlock had never been attached to material things, but he'd always _had _them, the benefits of growing up in an upper middle class family. John had come sparse to Baker Street as well, accustomed to the life of a soldier living on modest means; but the doctor had fought for his presence in 221B from the first moment he stepped foot there, with the comment about Sherlock's clutter. Looking at the boy from the bottom of the stairs, Harry seemed so small then that it would be easy for him to be lost in the flat, swallowed up by experiments and dust.

_Well, I was looking to share my world. He can have a piece of it until he makes his own. _

"Ready to go then?" Some time in the last few seconds, Ms. Tate had reentered with a dark skinned woman, who Sherlock presumed to be this Lacey Williams character. Introductions were made all around, files crossed hands, and Harry gave one last hug to a teary Sarah when she emerged from her behind desk.

The car ride was largely silent; Lacey had attempted to make small talk at first, but it was clear neither Sherlock nor the boy were much for conversation. Harry spent most of it with his nose pressed to the glass of the back window, watching London's life pass them by. Sherlock occupied himself eyeing the boy in the reflective surface of the windshield and cataloguing changes in the London surroundings.

At the beginning, every time the car had slowed down, Harry had taken to looking around eagerly. When it became evident that they had quite a ways to go, he'd settled down a bit, so he was unprepared for the noise of Lacey sliding the car into park when they finally pulled up to the curb in front of 221B.

"Here we are," Sherlock announced, taking the initiative to exit the car first. He went around to retrieve the boy's bag from the boot, pulling out his keys along the way.

"We're just up the stairs," he told them both upon entry, feeling uncomfortably like some sort of tour guide. "Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, lives on this bottom floor. She's in and out quite a bit." A quick gaze around revealed to Sherlock that Mrs. Hudson was thankfully out for the moment, gone to the shops for dinner, he speculated. _Don't want to overwhelm the boy anymore_.

They were up the stairs in a matter of moments. Sherlock looked towards Harry then, trying to gauge how the boy was feeling about all of this; thankfully, he appeared too consumed in curiosity over all of the little knick-knacks in the living room to be distressed over a new environment.

Lacey, Sherlock noticed, was poking around the kitchen area, lifting up some of the cleaned beakers on the counter. Having anticipated that he would not be allowed to take the boy without some sort of inspection of his flat, Sherlock had done his best to clean up most of the experiments he'd had running. He'd not been to Bart's in recent weeks, so luckily there were no body parts around currently – that had been his main concern, since both John and Mrs. Hudson still tended to vehemently object to those sort of experiments, and they were already quite used to his habits.

He breathed a sigh of relief when she left the lower cabinets alone: he couldn't bear to interrupt the study he'd been doing on the long term effects of different types of acids on various materials (cement, highly acidic dirt, tarmac and the like), so he'd stashed it down there, out of the way.

"My room is just down the hall, along with the washroom," he said, keeping up the running commentary to fill the silent scrutiny. "Your room is upstairs, Harry; Mrs. Hudson aired it out yesterday. We'll have to get you some of your own things, of course."

Harry looked up at him, a bit surprised. "Why don't you go put your things away?" Sherlock suggested then, having run out of rooms to show them.

Lacey smiled at that, and followed Harry up the stairs for a quick minute. Sherlock could hear quiet footsteps treading around from above, and busied himself with making tea to give his hands something to do.

A single set of adult footsteps on the stairs had Sherlock bracing himself in case she found something inadequate. _Grin and bear it, _he thought, _you can fix the little things easily enough. Mrs. Hudson will be over the moon to assist you. _

"Not exactly a child's room," she remarked blandly from behind him.

Sherlock stiffened for a moment, before turning to find the woman leaning against the entryway; _how was he to know what a child's room was supposed to be like? _Sherlock's current room didn't differ all that much from the way his had looked as a boy; different bedspreads and sheets, of course, and he supposed the walls were a different shade, but the set up was much the same. "I wanted to give him the chance to decorate it to his liking," he said finally.

It seemed he had passed some sort of test, then, because Lacey made a noise of approval and cracked into a small grin. "It seems like everything is in order, Mr. Holmes, so I'll just trot up to say 'bye to Harry, and you'll be hearing from me again within the week. Stacey provided you with my number, right?"

Recalling the card he'd been given, Sherlock assumed Stacey was referencing Ms. Tate and nodded.

"Wonderful. I'll be seeing you soon!"

* * *

By the time the kettle was whistling, Lacey had gone and Sherlock had found two clean-looking cups to serve tea in. A creak on the stairs behind him a few minutes earlier indicated Harry had returned, but the silence between them lingered, both parties uncertain where to go from here.

Sudden banging from the downstairs door opening and shutting made the boy jump, right as Sherlock began pouring the tea. The familiar pattern of keys clinking into a dish, followed by the thunk of vegetables and cans hitting a counter assured the detective that Mrs. Hudson had returned.

"Sherlock!" She called, now on her way up the stairs, "I picked up a chicken for dinner tonight, and if you don't help me eat it, I'll call John!"

Rolling his eyes at Mrs. Hudson's idea of a threat, Sherlock peered over his shoulder in time to catch sight of Harry's bewilderment. He shot another reassuring smile, inwardly reflecting that he'd used that expression more times today than he likely had in his entire life. _A trend that will probably continue. _

Sherlock brought the teacups over to the table, nearer to where Harry was rooted. "Milk?" he asked companionably, blatantly ignoring the impending arrival of his landlady.

The boy startled a moment at the question, before nodding and stepping over to the fridge to pick it out for himself. Sherlock was appreciative at the initiative; _there's that adaptability kicking into gear again._

"Sherlock? Are you ho–" Mrs. Hudson asked again, breaking off when she came through the doorway and noticed him perched near the table. "There you are!"

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock interrupted with a reproachful voice, before she'd had a chance to catch sight of their guest frozen in the corner, "my new flat mate moved in today. It was quite remiss of you to be out when he arrived," he teased, lifting a corner of his mouth.

"Well, if you'd told me when he was going to arrive when I asked you about it yesterday, I'd have been here!" She admonished good-naturedly. "Is he upstairs, then?"

Sherlock's slight beckoning motion had Harry stepping cautiously away from the fridge to set the milk on the table, drawing Mrs. Hudson's attention. Sherlock had the pleasure of observing as the landlady's face ran the gamut of emotions, from surprise to dismayed understanding, to elated enthusiasm as she realized Harry's presence meant there would be a child around to spoil. Sherlock knew she liked to pretend now and then with Sherlock himself, overgrown child that he was, but it wasn't the same; the dependence wasn't quite there the way it was between a true child and an adult.

"Oh! Sherlock, when you said you'd be continuing to cover the second rent as well, I thought – well, it doesn't matter what I thought," she said, coming to terms with the situation quickly. _The boy's not the only adaptable one, _Sherlock thought fondly. Turning to Harry, she softened her voice and asked, "Are you hungry, dear?"

Harry looked at Sherlock for guidance; Sherlock merely gave an encouraging eyebrow raise in response, wanting to break that habit of turning to the nearest adult for direction (but also secretly pleased it was him that Harry had turned to).

"Yes?" Harry answered, though it came out more like a question due to the rising tone. _Testing the waters, good for him. We did wind up skipping lunch, didn't we? _Sherlock realized absently. Food was never high up on his priorities, after all. _Though I suppose that will have to change, _he thought, eyeing his charge.

"I'm Mrs. Hudson, but you can call me Nana, if you like," she offered with a genial smile. "What's your name, dear?"

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow entirely for the landlady this time, surprised at this response but gratified at the easy relationship blossoming between the two.

"I'm Harry," the boy introduced shyly.

"That's a good name, love," she told him gently. She brought her hands together in a clap then, asking, "Now, would you like to come help me with dinner? I have some potatoes that could do with some peeling."

Sherlock watched as his young charge brightened, nodding furiously; _is he happy with the notion of dinner, or of being given a task? _Sherlock wondered, already interested in seeing new sides of the boy.

In short order, Mrs. Hudson had ushered them both down the stairs to wash up, but not before catching sight of the detective's expression. "That's quite enough out of you, Sherlock Holmes," she blushed.

* * *

**A/N: Well, that was exhausting. In a good way :). **

Thanks for all of your patience in waiting to get this chapter out guys! Our event this weekend went well; ironically, when I was mid-event all I wanted to do was work on this story, so I had the skeleton for quite a while. It took pretty much all of today to flush it out though; while it's not a lot in comparison to some of the stories up here, dropping nearly 6k words in one day makes me tired, so let me know if y'all catch any mistakes - it's not as thoroughly vetted as I usually try to be.

I hope everyone is pleased that Harry is finally in Baker Street; I know this chapter was a lot of bureaucracy, and it's probably not even close to how the true system actually works, but I couldn't in good conscience let Mycroft's governmental background remove every single obstacle, so we have this mix of rushed procedure :D. Don't hate me.

Sherlock surrounds himself with such awesome people. I hope to be half as lucky in my friends :).

Best,  
Kris

**P.S. I love you all - 60 some odd reviews for last chapter?! You guys are incredible! **


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